


The Devil's Lions

by ladyarcherfan3



Category: Ghost and the Darkness (1996), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Fusion, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyarcherfan3/pseuds/ladyarcherfan3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1898.  Sam Winchester is a brilliant engineer, working with the British Army, building a bridge in Africa, determined to stay on schedule to be in home in time for his child's birth.  But things fall apart and his past comes back to haunt him when two man-eating lions attack the workers.  But they are too driven, too organized, to be ordinary lions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Africa

**Author's Note:**

> Written for  [](http://spn-cinema.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_cinema**](http://spn-cinema.livejournal.com/).  Many, many thanks to [dreamersscape](http://dreamersscape.tumblr.com/) for her rather last minute beta work, saving me from typos and reassuring me that the emotions I wanted to get out of the readers really did get pulled out of the readers. :) Also, any inaccuracies and misrepresentations of history and language are either my fault, or kept in order to follow with the artistic license the movie took for story and drama.  If you haven't seen the film, this will probably spoil it for you, and I drew on it quite heavily while putting the SPN twist on things.  But enjoy!

**Title:** The Devil's Lions  
 **Author:** [](http://ladyarcherfan3.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyarcherfan3**](http://ladyarcherfan3.livejournal.com/)  
 **Movie Prompt:** [ The Ghost and The Darkness](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0116409/?ref_=nv_sr_2)  
 **Pairing:** Gen (Sam and Dean), with some Sam/Jess  
 **Rating:** R for language and gore  
 **Word Count:** 30,888  
 **Summary:** The year is 1898.  Sam Winchester is a brilliant engineer, working with the British Army, building a bridge in Africa, determined to stay on schedule to be in home in time for his child's birth.  But things fall apart and his past comes back to haunt him when two man-eating lions attack the workers.  But they are too driven, too organized, to be ordinary lions.  
 **Notes:** Written for  [](http://spn-cinema.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_cinema**](http://spn-cinema.livejournal.com/).  Many, many thanks to [dreamersscape](http://dreamersscape.tumblr.com/) for her rather last minute beta work, saving me from typos and reassuring me that the emotions I wanted to get out of the readers really did get pulled out of the readers. :) Also, any inaccuracies and misrepresentations of history and language are either my fault, or kept in order to follow with the artistic license the movie took for story and drama.  If you haven't seen the film, this will probably spoil it for you, and I drew on it quite heavily while putting the SPN twist on things.  But enjoy!

 

 

[ ](http://s282.photobucket.com/user/RHldy/media/TheDevilsLions_zpsa68efbbd.jpg.html)

* * *

 

**Part 1 - Africa**

  
Heat welled up from the red earth and pounded down from the sun. The air was hot and dry, and it stung his lungs as he drew each breath. A strong wind blew, stirring dust and tossing the long yellow grass like ocean waves. But it brought no relief. He smelled hot iron, rust, and something harsh and sour. He turned, but saw only the sun bleached sky and the parched grass. Then, between one breath and another, everything went black. A low rumble, like thunder, welled up out of the ground, the air. The stench of sulfur assaulted his nostrils. Yellow eyes flashed suddenly in the darkness. Terror shot through him, and then the eyes charged.

He woke with a gasp, and the cool, damp air of London filled his lungs, settling him. The house was dark, but the faint, wavering light of a streetlamp worked its way through the curtained window. He sat up and dragged a hand through his hair.

“Sam?” His wife rolled over carefully and reached for him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He took her hand and kissed it as he laid back down. “Just a dream. Go back to sleep, Jess.”

She hummed and curled against his side. “Was it about India?”

“No.”

“Excited for Africa?” she wondered. “I know you have been dreaming of it for years, and now you finally get to go…”

“Yes, that’s it.” He was certain there was no hint of the lie in his voice, or if there was, that she would be too sleepy to notice it. “Now go back to sleep.” He reached down and put his hand on the slight swell of her belly. “You need rest.”

Her eyes were closed, but she said, “Very well, but only because you asked so politely.”

“Please, Jess. Tomorrow is a big day.”

“I know. Then you need your rest too.”

He didn’t respond, but just wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Before long, her breathing had evened out and she was asleep again. But he knew that he wouldn’t find rest again that night.

Because he was Sam Winchester. And he just had a nightmare that had nothing to do with India. He had smelled sulfur in that nightmare for the first time in years. That life had been left behind. To get such a reminder now could bode no good for his future. But that was something he just could not accept.

 

*

  
It was a challenge to push the nightmare and the implications away the next morning, but if he was good at anything, it was avoiding and compartmentalizing his past and anything to do with it. If Jess did notice anything, she didn’t mention, undoubtedly chalking it up to nerves.

And he had every right to be nervous.

The day flew by in a rush of double and triple checking bags and chests, though he had had them packed for several weeks now and he packed light out of habit. All the basics were there - extra clothes, all his tools, blueprints, and the rest. His journal and writing supplies. His best rifles and shotguns and their ammunition.

There was one bag that he hadn’t initially packed, but he added that morning before Jess had properly woken up. He didn’t want to acknowledge his past, but he did not want to be unprepared either. The plain green duffle held a bag of rock salt, a flask of holy water, and an iron bladed knife. He hoped that there would be no need to ever bring them out, but at least he would have them. By the time she had joined him in the kitchen, he had pushed the green duffle and the nightmare to the back of his mind.

Before he knew it, he was striding down a dim hallway towards a well lit room, Jess left in the company of one of her good friends to peruse the shops while he attended a meeting.

The sharp click of his boots echoed down the hall, reverberating around him for a moment after he stopped just short of the door. He tugged his uniform coat straight, ran a hand over his hair to make sure it was still tied back and neat. Then, with a deep breath, he reached out and opened the door.

After the dim coolness of the hallway, the bright warm room shook his already nerve addled senses. The light was bright because it was needed to properly read the documents and maps that filled the tables and lined the walls. Traces of cigar smoke hung in the air, along with the dusty ink and paper smells. But even as the gazes of the small group of men in the center of the room turned to look, Sam recovered. He had fought against man and beast and even more terrifying monsters. This small meeting should not be a challenge. He would not let it be one.

“Ah, Colonel Winchester, come in!” One of the men extracted himself from the group and extended his hand. “Robert Beaumont.”

Sam returned the handshake. “Mr. Beaumont, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“A firm handshake - tells me a lot about you,” Beaumont said and stepped to the side, gesturing to a chair behind a document-ladened table. “Now, why don’t you tell me about me?”

Sam sat down and cocked his head to the side, uncertain. “Sir?”

“For example,” Beaumont continued, as he circled around the table and stood to face Sam. “People say I am charming, with a wonderful smile, winning personality.” He bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a grin, but it reminded Sam of a jackal.

He took a careful breath. He could recognize alpha male posturing when he saw it. The fact that Beaumont had encouraged him to sit while he remained standing was also indicative - Sam towered over nearly everyone, and he’d rarely met a higher ranking person who was comfortable with that. So he simply replied, “My wife is the game player of the family, sir.”

Beaumont’s grin turned to a more dangerous expression, shifting from jackal to wolf. “Thank you, gentlemen!” he snapped at the group behind him. They quickly dispersed. He leaned in close to Sam. “Take a good look at me, Winchester. My only pleasure is tormenting people who work for me. People such as yourself. I am a monster. One mistake on this project, and I assure you, I will make you hate me.”

It took considerable effort for Sam to bite back the retort on the tip of his tongue. Beaumont didn’t know the true meaning of being a monster. Sam did. He’d fought them. But if this was the kind of monster he had to fight now, it would hardly be a challenge. So he simply nodded, letting Beaumont have the final word.

The gesture apparently satisfied Beaumont. “Good! So I know you have a firm handshake, and are an engineer of renown.” He picked up a folder from the table and flipped it open. “American, but you’ve been working with the British army for six years now? And was made an honorary colonel last year?” He glanced up at Sam, the wolf’s grin still in place.

It was all just more posturing. Beaumont knew Sam’s background and his skills - he had hired him in the first place. “That’s right. For services rendered to the company and for bravery above and beyond the norm.”

“Yes, there was something with a tiger? And a skirmish with the natives where your shot killed the leader and the spirits of the rebels, and thus saved the lives of the entire company and your workers?” Beaumont snapped the folder shut as Sam nodded. “How touching.” He spun to a large map on a tripod behind him. “Now. We are building the most expensive and daring railroad across Africa, for the glorious purpose of saving Africa from the Africans,” he rolled his eyes, “and of course to end slavery. We are in competition with the Germans and the French, and we are ahead. And we will stay ahead, providing you can do your job. Build a bridge across the river Tsavo,” he thrust a finger at the map, “and do it in four months.” The grin came back, feral as ever. “Can you do that?”

 _If you didn’t think I could, why did you hire me?_ Sam thought, but forced his expression to remain neutral. “You have examined my record. I have never been late on a bridge.”

Yes, I am well aware of your distinguished record. But you’ve never built in Africa.”

A flutter of excitement went through his chest. Africa had always been his dream. And now he was about to do what he did best while there? No amount of threatening or posturing from Beaumont could deter him. “Every country has its own challenges, but I am not afraid of them.”

“You’ll need that confidence, I assure you. Five months in Africa… Time can fly by quickly.”

“If I may speak personally,” Sam said quickly, the excitement and nerves and frustration of the day finally catching up with him. “My wife is expecting our first child in six months, and I promised her I’d be there for the birth. And I always keep my word. So your bridge will be done well before five months are up, I assure you.”

“How touching,” Beaumont simpered. “But I don’t give a shit about your upcoming litter. I made you with this assignment. Don’t make me break you.”

Sam took a careful breath and tamped down his anger. Beaumont had not made him by any means; his reputation as an engineer had been solid before this assignment. And he would not break him either. “You won’t have a chance. Now, unless you have any more words of encouragement, I have a train to catch.” He stood, gave Beaumont a curt nod, turned sharply on his heel and left.

Beaumont watched him go, the wolfish grin never faltering. “Either the bridge will be done in record time, or he will break very prettily. I am not sure which I like more.”

 

*

  
His luggage had all been loaded by the time he and Jess arrived at the station, and they had only moments before the train would depart. He pulled her close to him, arm around her shoulder, grip tightening as he watched the steam billow out from the engine in ever-growing clouds. Despite all his excitement and longing, he suddenly loathed the idea of leaving. Beaumont’s words had awakened his own fears at not being able to finish the job in time, to be late, to miss the birth of his first child… The remembered stench of sulfur filled his nostrils again, and he had to bite back a rush of words and advice. He couldn’t suddenly tell Jess that there were monsters in the world, to tell her that salt around the doors and windows would keep them out, that holy water and iron would protect her. There was no way he could tell her all this now, and leave her to go to Africa. His past had never been spoken of before. The only hope he had was that he had left it behind, and that if it did rear its ugly head, it would simply follow him and not touch Jess.

Jess sensed his turmoil, if not the entirety of its depths. “You have to go, Sam. It’s only five months.”

“I would have never taken this job if we had known sooner.”

She rolled her eyes. “And you would have been in agony, and I would have blamed myself. You’ve been dreaming of it for your entire life. It’s one of the few things I do know about your past, and it has certainly stayed with you into your present.”

“But what if things go wrong? What if I am not back in time? What if something happens to you and I am not here?”

She lifted a hand and put it over his mouth gently, silencing him. “I have my family and friends in the city if I need anything. And remember that I am a strong lady. That is why you love me.” She grinned.

“Headstrong,” he countered with a grin of his own.

She tapped his cheek in a mock slap. “And when things go wrong, and they will, our son and I - and yes, note my confidence - will have an excuse to visit you in Africa.”

“What would I do without you?” he asked, tucking a strand of her hair back behind her ear.

“Undoubtedly crash and burn and whither away to nothing.”

“All aboard! Final call! All aboard!” bellowed the conductor over the chaos of the crowd and the hiss of the steam.

Jess pushed a hand against his chest. “Go on, Sam. I will be fine.”

“I know. It doesn’t mean I don’t worry.” He took her hand and kissed it.

She smirked and rolled her eyes. “Such a gentleman. Where is that dashing American that I married? Did my fine London society tame you?”

He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her close and kissed her properly, propriety be damned.

The train whistle blew again, but he didn’t move.

“Sam, you’re going to miss your train and you’ll never see Africa.”

“Africa. I’m desperate to see it, but if it means leaving you…”

“You’re a bridge builder. You have to go where the rivers are. Now go.”

With another quick kiss to her forehead, Sam stepped away. “I’ll be back in time,” he promised and strode towards the train, the steam and the crowds enveloping him.

 

*

  
The journey was long and far from comfortable. It wasn’t the distance, the boredom of train travel, or the fatigue and illness of traveling by ship. He was used to that, as his time with the army had taken him to India and around the continent. Rather, it was the sudden rash of nightmares that plagued him at night and haunted his waking hours. They were dreams that left him nothing but an impression of blackness, pain, fear and sulfurous yellow eyes. Headaches blossomed behind his eyes, and were only relieved by the few hours a night he could sleep well before the nightmares struck again.

His days stretched and blurred into a never ending stream of rail stations and seaports, all connected by a long, dull thread of barely-acknowledged landscape. He hardly noticed the changes in the clime and terrain, the shift of languages and skin color until one night. Tired enough to have long regretted his passion for Africa, he moved through the milling crowds around the train, blinking through a haze of steam and weariness. In all honesty he wasn’t even sure if he was in Africa, or if he was, where in Africa he might have landed.

Over the chatter of a group of persistent vendors that had surrounded him, he heard his name.

“Colonel Winchester! Colonel Winchester, sir!”

A young man with wild dark curls and bright eyes behind smudged spectacles appeared at Sam’s side. With a few polite but firm words, he managed to send the vendors on their way without much trouble.

“Good to meet you, sir!” he said with a bright smile. As Sam struggled to focus, he continued. “I am Angus Starling. I’m to assist you in Tsavo. But surely Mr. Beaumont told you that.” He held out his hand.

Sam returned the handshake, his stupor ebbing away under the power of the young man’s energy. “No, he just gave me his ‘monster speech.’”

Angus shook his head, his Scottish brogue thickening as he replied, “Ach, Robert seems terrible - but once you get to know the man, he’s much worse.”

Sam smiled, and the first laugh in what felt like months bubbled up from his chest. Angus grinned as well and took him by the arm.

“Is it your first time in Africa? Good. Because I’ve reserved the best seats on the train. Come on!”

In short order, Sam found himself seated on a bench that had been bolted to the nose of the train, Angus beside him, as the huge machine rattled off into the fading night.

He sat tense for the first several hours, the cool air whipping past him erasing the stupor and charging him with a quivering excitement. But there was little to be seen through the darkness. After Angus had explained his role in the work camp - a missionary first and foremost, general helper secondarily - he lapsed into silence. It was difficult to shout over the wind and roar of the engine, and he seemed to sense that Sam needed the silence.

That was truly a relief. Because Sam didn’t know how to fill in the gaps of the conversation. His mind was a tangled mess of logistical concerns - when would he arrive in Tsavo? What would the conditions be like? How many workers were there really and what sort of tensions would there be between the men? - and a surge of emotions too complex to properly name.

A sudden shift in thought presented him with the crystal clear memory of hours spent pouring over books about Africa. He had absorbed everything in those books like it had been life-giving water. Even before he could read, he’d stare at the illustrations of strange animals, memorizing every line, while Dean read the descriptions with his own embellishments. It had filled the long hours they were alone, while their father was gone, hunting…

Sam shook his head. It had been years since he had consciously thought about his family, and even more since he had seen or spoken to them. His father and older brother hadn’t been able to accept that he wanted a life removed from theirs, removed from hunting. So he’d left. It had not been a pleasant departure, and had resulted in hard words and bitter feelings. He didn’t regret the decision. He loved his life, and did not miss the old one. Except… Dean. That had been the hardest parting. He’d seen the look in Dean’s eyes when he left, seen exactly how his decision had betrayed his older brother and shattered the world he had been so careful to protect and guard. Dean’s drive, Sam knew, had always been to be the best hunter possible, but that was only there to serve his first goal - to protect Sam.

But Sam had grown up too, capable and smart, and if Dean could have just accepted that -

His musings were cut short by Angus’s voice and a gentle slap on his shoulder.

“Look!”

To the east, the red disk of the sun broke over the horizon and light spilled across the land, faster than Sam would have thought possible. The outline of the savannah took shape, trees and waving grasses and river valleys all etched out of light and shadow. It was as if the illustrations in his childhood books had come to life.

Before long the day blazed into it’s full glory, and animals appeared, skittering away from the train.

“Look at the antelope!” Angus cried as a massive herd of the graceful animals sprang away from the tracks and raced into the grass.

“Impalas, specifically,” Sam clarified, grinning as he watched their impossible leaps and bounds.

Now it was Sam’s turn to eagerly slap at Angus’s shoulder and point out the wonders around them.

“There! The giraffes! Did you know they only sleep five minutes a day?”

When they passed a wildebeest carcass with a pack of hyenas feasting on the putrefying flesh, Angus wrinkled his nose and said, “I don’t like them much.”

“The females are bigger than the males,” Sam said, swiveling around in his seat with a pair of binoculars to continue watching as the train passed. “The only animals like that here. They have to be in order to survive, because the males eat the young.”

This sort of conversation continued for several hours, until Angus said, “I’ve been in Africa for a year, and I don’t know what you know. How long have you been here?”

Sam pulled out his pocket-watch, checked it, and replied, “A little over twenty four hours. But I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

The train ride lasted for some days, but Sam did not bother to count them. Where his journey before had been dull and lifeless, he scarcely noticed the passing of the hours and days as he took in Africa in every single detail he could. And he noticed the changes as they drew nearer to Tsavo. It seemed to grow hotter. Roads and paths rutted up the ground and churned the grass down into the red soil. Thorn trees appeared more frequently, and many had been chopped down or trimmed, the branches used to make fences around animal pens and homes. Smoke, steam and dust hung in the air, and tent cities appeared along the areas of construction as they approached the river.

The train slowed, wheels and pistons hissing and squealing, steam gushing out in great plumes. Sam struggled to put his mind back in order. Now was the time to focus.

“Welcome to Tsavo!” Angus said.

They jumped from their bench to the platform before the train had stopped, Sam’s muscles protesting and loving the movement at the same time. Crowds milled around, eager to see what goods the train had brought, and using the excuse to help unload everything to get away from their usual tasks. A handful of different languages rose from dozens of throats. Angus beckoned him and plunged into the press of bodies, apparently following the sound of one deep, strident voice.

“Samuel!” Angus called.

Sam twitched, but quickly realized that he wasn’t being addressed.

A middle aged African man was shouting commands to the various groups of people on the platform. If his voice and words did not get the desired reaction, he thumped his wooden staff against the platform or shook it in the air to get his point across. And it seemed to be working.

“Samuel is camp liaison,” Angus explained as they approached. “He’s the only man everyone here trusts.”

Sam nodded, and because his practical knowledge of African languages was shaky at best, asked, “Does he speak English?”

“And very poor French,” Samuel replied as he turned, but he had a warm smile and steady hand shake as his true greeting.

“This is Colonel Sam Winchester,” Angus said in introduction.

“I think it will be easy to remember each other’s names, no?” Samuel grinned.

“Or make things very confusing,” Sam countered, instantly at ease. Samuel had a very calming presence, but one that left very little doubt about his authority and strengths. It was no wonder everyone trusted him. He was suddenly reminded of Dean, and had to fight a wave of emotion. He blinked when he realized that Samuel was speaking to him again.

“So this is our bridge builder, eh? I did not know they make such giants in America. Perhaps you intend to build the bridge alone, or use yourself to span the river?”

“I blame my mother’s people for my height - the Campbells must have had some Viking in their Scotch blood. As for building the bridge, that’s an undertaking that can’t be done by one man. It’s difficult, it’s meant to be. Bringing land over water…”

Samuel nodded sagely. “Come, I will show you the bridge site.”

“Thank you.”

Angus turned into the crowd and called back, “I need to deliver these supplies to the hospital - show him the way there when you’re done?”

Samuel saluted with the staff. “I will bring him, Angus! Do not worry.”

They started off, leaving behind the bustling platform for the equally busy and crowded work site. Motion and activity swirled around them in an ordered chaos. Long lines of workers with picks hacked out the railroad grade, while others carried out ties and rails, to be hammered into place by other men with heavy hammers. Everyone appeared to be focused on their tasks, but they all looked up and stared as Sam went by. There was not a single friendly look or welcoming gesture to be seen. A heavy pall of dust and smoked weighed down the air and built up the heat of the day to a furnace blast that even the wind could not ease.

He couldn’t hold back a question. “Why does everyone look so miserable?”

Samuel didn’t stop walking or look back as he replied. “Because they are here.”

Sam mulled on that. Challenges, he had expected. A low morale wasn’t uncommon. But such a bleak outlook about the place, that was going to be interesting to deal with. Was it the situation, the labor, or simply the location that bothered the workers. He would have to investigate further. “You seem to keep everything organized, at least,” he said finally.

“Thank you. If it is, it is a miracle.”

“Why do you say that?”

Samuel sighed a little. “The truth it, the workers don’t like each other at all. Obviously, the Africans hate the Indians. But the Indians also hate other Indians. Hindus, they believe the cow is sacred. But the Muslims eat the cow.”

“I have worked with both Hindu and Muslim,” he replied. “Perhaps I can help.”

“You can try,” Samuel shrugged. “It won’t work. Tsavo is the worst place in the world.”

They reached the river then, and Sam’s mind turned towards pure logistics. The width of the river, the slope of the banks, the support system need to safely handle the train traffic - those were all mathematical problems that could be worked out on paper. But translating them into realities of labor and materials was something else entirely.

“There are three thousand men laying track in the advance camp,” Samuel told him, pointing across the river with his staff. “Once the bridge is built, it will all link up. And every day, they move their camp another two miles, even though your bridge is not built.”

Sam sighed and stared out over the river.

“Was it easier, in your mind?”

“Why would it be easy? If it were easy, we would never better ourselves.”

“Perhaps. But come this way. You should meet Mahina.”

Mahina was the foreman, one of the other men that wielded great control over the camp. He had an engineer’s mind but no schooling. Along with his mind, he was a massive man, taller even than Sam and solid muscle. After a brief conversation, Samuel led the way back to the hospital, so Angus could show Sam to his living quarters.

The heat of the sun was inescapable, and even though the wind was hot, it did move the air, so Sam pulled off his hat, running his fingers through his hair in the hopes that the sweat drenched strands would dry and cool a bit. It didn’t take long before he started hearing a word whispered behind him as they walked through camp.

_Simba._

_Simba._

_Simba._

_Simba Mtu._

_Simba._

“What are they saying?” he asked suddenly.

“ _Simba Mtu._ They are calling you the Lion Man.”

“What?” Sam was genuinely confused. He didn’t think he’d done anything to warrant a nickname. And if he was going to get one, he’d expected something to do with a giant or a giraffe, because of his height.

The amusement was clear in Samuel’s voice as he replied, “Your hair. It looks like a lion’s mane.”

“Oh. Is that going to be a problem, you think?”

“If it is going to be a problem, then Tsavo is the place it would be.”

The hospital was little more than a tin shed filled with cots and mosquito nets. The stench of sweat and sickness hung heavy in the air, and Sam struggled to keep the discomfort from his expression. Angus wove from bed to bed, speaking a few words with each patient. His face was bright and eager; clearly he was in his element.

Sam noticed the range of expected railroad labor induced injuries - cuts and abrasions, broken hands and splinted feet. But a vast majority of the patients seemed ill rather than injured. “Is it mostly malaria?” he asked Angus as the man drew near.

“Yes, but their suffering is merely transitory. Once they have accepted God into their hearts-”

“That’s just vomitous talk, and you know it, Mr. Starling,” a harsh voice interrupted. “The poor bastards will get even sicker if you don’t shut up.” A grey-haired man strode into view, his hands and white apron stained with blood. He eyed Sam. “You must be the engineer.”

“That’s right.”

“David Hawthorne.” He extended his hand, remembered the blood, and turned to a basin of cloudy water instead. “And this is my hospital. My advice to you: don’t get sick.”

Sam didn’t answer. The doctor’s tactless manner grated on him already.

Hawthorne continued, “Sorry, that was meant to be funny. Must have lost my charm.”

“You never had it,” Angus muttered as he stepped next to Sam.

“Angus and I don’t like each other,” Hawthorne explained with a certain relish.

“And I am also a liaison between these two,” Samuel added.

Sam took a deep breath. He was starting to agree with Samuel’s opinion of Tsavo. Then he turned to Hawthorne and asked, “Don’t you agree with building the railroad?”

“This?” Hawthorne snorted. “This is a sham. It’s only here to protect the ivory trade and make rich men richer.”

“Then why do you stay?” He was starting to understand Hawthorne’s bitterness. He knew what it was like to stay in a situation that went against what he saw and desired for himself.

Hawthorne spread his hands and snorted again. “Who else would have me?” He grinned at Angus. “Beat you to it, didn’t I?”

Angus glowered but didn’t answer.

Then Hawthorne added, “Oh, I almost forgot.” He turned to a patient on a nearby cot. The man’s leg was swathed with bandages from the knee down, and his skin was ashy pale. “This is Karim, one of my orderlies. He was attacked by a lion this morning.”

Angus’s incredulous voice echoed around the hospital. “A _man-eater_ attacks, and you’re such a _buffoon_ , that you almost forget to mention it!”

There was a ripple of unease through the other patients that Sam could not miss as Angus’s statement was heard.

Hawthorne continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “He was riding his donkey this morning when the lion pounced. The donkey took the brunt of it.” He turned to Sam, challenge clear in his eyes. “So. What are you going to do about it? I know that you just arrived, but considering your reputation and history, I am sure the men are looking to you for protection. But if you are tired... ”

Sam’s pride reared up. This was a challenge to his skills, his authority and his ability to keep the entire operation in order. It was less about the lion and more about his personal strength. If he failed to keep the camp safe against a lion, he’d lose respect before he’d even have a chance to earn it, and the whole operation would likely fall apart. And as much as he had forgotten about his past, he still kept his skills honed. They had served him well in India against tigers and rebels. They’d do the same here against lions. He may have stopped hunting the monsters that lived in the shadows, but he had been fighting deadly beasts and intangible monsters that men created themselves for years now. He wasn’t about to back down now. Even if Tsavo was the worst place in the world.

“With any luck, I’ll sort it out tonight.” He gave Hawthorne a short nod and left the hospital.

He had a rifle to clean.  



	2. Lions

 

 

  
It was nearing dusk, and Sam had managed to get his luggage off the train and deposited in his tent with help from Angus. The first thing he unpacked was his rifle.

Despite undoubtedly having numerous duties around to take care of, Angus refused to move more than five yards away from Sam’s tent. He sent out question after question about what he could do to help get Sam settled, about the process of caring for firearms, and whatever else he could think of. Sam, hands busy with the well-remembered motions of cleaning his gun, answered the questions patiently. After a while, Angus settled down on one of the trunks and watched as Sam reassembled the rifle, now oiled and cleaned.

“Do you think I could come along tonight?”

Sam lifted an eyebrow. “To hunt the lion? Have you ever hunted before?”

Angus shifted and scratched his chin. “Not actually, no. I didn’t do much in the outdoors as a child. And I’ve never had the need here. We’ve not had lion trouble before.”

“I suppose you have to start somewhere.” He put the rifle down and grabbed the ammo box and started inspecting the bullets.

“Yes, my thoughts exactly,” Angus agreed.

“Can you keep quiet?”

“Yes, no worries, I can be as quiet as a church mouse!”

Sam smirked. Angus had shown no ability to be quiet since they’d met. “Okay. Well, first things first, you have to know your weapon.” He picked out a second rifle from the chest. “Let’s see how much you remember from what I told you.”

With a lot of help from Sam, Angus got the rifle cleaned, and they both did a test fire. Sam hadn’t shot in a while, but his aim came back quickly. Angus, who had never really shot, wasn’t so skilled. But he managed to hit the target reasonably well.

“I don’t think you’ll shoot me by accident, so let’s go.”

Dusk came and went, and the night crept by. Sam had opted to climb a tree that afforded a good view of the path near where Karim had been attacked. And he’d tied a donkey at a strategic position, hoping to draw the lion in. The poor beast would also serve as a warning system; if the lion came in, the donkey would surely react.

However, if Angus did not stay quiet, the lion wasn’t likely to show up.

“Sam… my leg… the cramp… is getting worse.” Angus’s stage whisper was nearly as loud as his normal speaking voice.

“You’re just going to have to deal with it,” Sam replied.

“That is the plan. In my tent.” Angus started to climb down from his branch.

“You won’t make it back. The lion will eat you.” He turned slowly and saw Angus, frozen half way down. He made sure that his face was completely blank.

Angus scrambled back on his perch. “Exactly.”

Sam turned back to look over the grass and grinned. Angus was far too easy to rile up, to tease. He wondered if this was what it was like to have a younger brother, if this was how Dean felt when they’d been kids, and he’d ribbed him about everything from his hair to his insatiable love for all things about Africa.

He quickly pushed the memories away. They wouldn’t help him concentrate now. It worried him a little, that his memories had been at the forefront of his mind lately. Perhaps it had been because Dean had always been a part of those childhood memories; he’d read the books to Sam, and Sam had always seen both of them going on safari, experiencing the adventure together, as brothers should. But that had not happened. So he blamed that absence for the sudden rush of memories.

“Is this the best way to hunt a lion?” Angus wondered.

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “I’ve never even seen one outside of a book.”

The hours crept by, and dawn drew near. Angus had long since worked out the cramp in his leg and had fallen asleep. Sam felt his eyelids drag down. Perhaps the lion would not come that night. Maybe it wasn’t a man eater after all, just a young hunter looking for easy prey…

A gust of wind stirred the grass and drove a small shiver across Sam’s skin. The donkey shifted restlessly and tugged at its tether. After a few moments, the wind died, but the donkey continued to shuffle around, snorting high and thin. Sam blinked and sat up. The grass continued to stir behind the donkey.

The donkey brayed suddenly, and bolted to the end of its line. A dark shadow sprang out of the grass. Sam snapped the rifle to his shoulder, aimed for less than a heartbeat and fired. Angus yelped as he woke, screeched as he slipped and fell to the ground. A moment later he screamed again.

“Angus!” Sam twisted in his perch and peered down through the branches.

In a heap near the base of the tree, Angus looked back up at him, face white as a sheet. Inches away, the lion sprawled across the ground, jaws gaping, claws extended. And very dead.

“One shot!” Angus giggled wildly and looked back at the lion. “One shot!”

That was the cry that was taken up by most of the camp populace when a handful of men carried the carcass back into camp, dangling by its tied paws from a thick pole. Samuel led the procession.

“One shot! Winchester has made the night safe again! Kaptula-moja! One shot!”

Sam followed the lion back, partly because he had to make sure people knew he had killed it, and partly because it was on the way back to his tent. The hunt had gone well, and he was satisfied, but he was also tired, and there was work to be done that day. He couldn’t afford to celebrate too wildly. But next to him, Angus strutted as if he’d made the kill shot. Again, Sam remembered walking next to Dean, chest puffed in pride over something his older brother had done. Clearly something similar had infected Angus.

He let the younger man revel in the excitement, and left the procession when it passed his tent. He knew Samuel wouldn’t let the crowd get too wild, and he figured that it would be good for morale to give them just a bit of a break from the preparations of building a bridge changed into actually building a bridge. Angus’s voice joined the chant of “One shot! Kaptula-moja!” rivaling Samuel’s bellow, and he smiled. The plans he had sketched from initial reports were unpacked and tossed down on his writing desk. There would be all sorts of details that needed to be added and altered before he could make much of a start. He reached for a pencil, but stopped and put it down again. He picked up his rifle instead, and cleaned it.

 

 

*

  
Several days later, his plans were solidified on paper and as tiny wooden models. The problem, as always, was taking the vision to reality. Sam knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain everything himself, so he gave Mahina and Angus the task of laying the foundation piers. Over the last few days he had gotten to know the foreman better, and was impressed with the man’s fortitude and intelligence. They ended up comparing notes on not only bridge building, but lion hunting. Mahina had killed a lion in his youth, using only his bare hands. Anyone who had that sort of determination could see the foundation piers ready in four weeks. But despite his usual optimism, Angus was unsure.

“I think killing the lion has inflated your head,” he declared, looking at the blueprints and frowning.

“You’re just going to have to use your hands,” Sam replied wryly, glancing up at Mahina, who laughed.

“Come, Angus, let us show the mighty hunter what we two are capable of!”

Time flew by. Four weeks came, left, and still the foundation piers were not ready. Supplies were delayed, weather uncooperative, feuds between the different factions of workers flared up. But things still got done, thanks to the combined efforts of Mahina, Angus and Samuel. With them, Sam found a team that worked almost seamlessly despite everything. Mahina’s strength of will drove things forward, Angus’ unflagging enthusiasm kept spirits up, and Samuel’s unbreakable calm worked a sort of magic to bring about results. The last time Sam had been a part of such a team in action had been years ago, when he’d barely been much more than a boy, hunting with his father and Dean. It felt good.

Seven weeks after he had killed the lion, everything fell in place. All the supplies arrived, the beams and supports settled right where they were supposed on the first try, and the bridge took shape. Africa had proven to be challenging thus far, but Sam and his team had risen to the challenge and beaten it. Despite everything, including the three week setback, they managed to stay on task.

It was only then that he realized he hadn’t written to Jess at all. Which was a problem. She was undoubtedly lonely and frustrated from the lack of correspondence. And with the weight of ensuring the proper foundation for the bridge behind him, Sam honestly missed her as well. A letter wouldn’t do much to ease the small pit of emptiness that opened in a corner of his chest at thinking of her, but it would help.

He sat down that evening and wrote out what felt like a novel length missive, detailing his journey to Africa, the lion hunt, and the progress of the bridge. He told her all about Mahina and the ‘killing a lion with his hands’ mime he used to express triumph - hands and fingers wrapped around a massive imaginary neck, his own teeth bared in a huge grin. He told her how Samuel had presented him with a necklace decorated with three of the lion’s massive claws, for bravery and luck. Angus and his missionary work and his success in converting several of the native workers took several paragraphs. Samuel he described at length, assuring her that he could not have found a better partner for this job if he had tried.

He ended the letter rather more poetically than he would have normally, but by that point he didn’t quite have control over the pen.

_Africa is everything I dreamed it would be. And more. But no amount of beauty here can compare to the sunrise I see in your every smile, and I miss that so much. I miss you. But you do realize that we never discussed the issue of naming our son - and yes your confidence has infected me as well - before I left. As your husband, I feel the need to have some say in the matter, but I know you have far better taste and knowledge in such things. I will leave it up to you. I can only hope that the remaining months fly by as swiftly as these first have done, and that I will be home with you again. Or that you will visit me in Africa, and see the majesty of this land._

_Love, Sam_

He sealed and addressed the letter and sent it back to the rail station with Angus, who was sending off a telegram with a request for more bibles. Then, exhausted but satisfied, Sam fell asleep.

 

 

*

  
He was moving along the fringes of the camp, silent, confident. The tents appeared and disappeared in his vision like ghosts; small fires glowed sullenly at random intervals. It was quiet, almost too quiet. The sounds of sleeping men continued on, but the natural sounds of night animals were missing. Not that it mattered to him.

He continued, until he came to a tent set further from the others. He could smell the rank scent of sweaty bodies, heard their snores and soft breaths. He could almost taste the richness of their blood. Reaching through a gap between the canvas and the ground with a careful but powerful touch, he snagged the ankle of a man within the tent. He pulled.

It took the man a few moments to realize what was happening, jerked so suddenly from sleep. But when the teeth set into his leg and the sudden rush of movement as he was dragged along the ground hit him, his bellow echoed through camp.

The tent mates woke and scrambled away, screaming warnings into the night.

_Simba, Simba, Simba!_

He ignored them all, and took a better grip on the man’s leg, and loped out of camp. The man continued to scream in fear and agony. Clumps of grass tugged and slowed down his speed. But nothing could deter him. There was hot blood on his tongue, and an even sweeter reward to come. When he reached the edge of the camp and the thorn bushes there, he sprang over a low spot. The man screamed a final time.

 

 

  
*

  
Sam woke, screams tangled in his throat, pulse slamming hard through his veins, and sweat drenching his body. It had been a nightmare, he knew with sudden clarity, but unlike one he had ever had before. There had been no sulfur, no yellow eyes staring at him from out of the black. He had both watched watched and been part of the action. He’d tasted the blood in his mouth. The echoes of the nightmare rang through him yet, but they twisted and faded as real screams filled the air.

_“Simba! Simba!”_

He staggered off of his cot and grabbed his rifle, battle instincts flaring to life.

Samuel appeared in the entrance of his tent, eyes wide with fear and breathless from running. “They are saying a lion took Mahina from his tent,” he panted.

“Which way did it go?” he asked, passing another rifle to Samuel.

They followed the trail from Mahina’s tent out into the grassland. It was painfully easy to read. Torn up dirt, grass ripped out in bunches, and splashes of blood led them to the edge of camp. And clearly stamped in the dirt, the huge paw prints of a lion. There was no doubt what had happened to Mahina. The sun had risen by that time, and dark shadows dove down at a point in front of them.

“Vultures,” Samuel said. His word and expression left little doubt to what he thought they would find at the end of the trail.

They crossed the last few yards, weaving through bloodstained thorn trees, and Sam fired off two rounds. Behind him, he heard Samuel gasp in fear, but he just shook his head. The lion wasn’t there anymore. But the vultures were the only thing there for Sam to vent his anger and sorrow at. They were feasting on what remained of Mahina.

Bringing Mahina’s remains back to camp without drawing attention to the task was nearly impossible. The news had spread like wildfire, and there was no doubt that a lion had been the culprit, between the eyewitnesses and the evidence left on the ground. Panic swelled through the air. Sam felt it, pressing against his chest, squeezing his lungs between it and the surge of his own fear and panic at the loss of not only a good man, but the stability he thought had been instilled in the camp. So, as they reentered camp and the crowds gathered, he schooled his features. He was the leader here, and couldn’t afford to look weak by showing his fear and sorrow. Growing up, Dean had always hid his emotions behind a veneer of cocky assurance and witty one liners; Sam’s reaction had followed their father’s - a stony coldness - despite how loath he was to admit it.

They brought the body to the hospital, though there was absolutely nothing Doctor Hawthorne could do for the poor man. But it seemed like the best place to keep him safe and out of the crowd’s eyes until they could arrange a funeral and burial. There, Sam saw the acerbic doctor’s facade shatter in horror.

“It looks like the lion licked his skin off to drink his blood, and then started eating him from the feet up.” He looked up at Sam, “Lion’s don’t eat this way! Are you sure it was a lion?”

“We followed its tracks.” Sam turned to leave. There was nothing more he could do, and there was a camp full of nervous workers to handle. “Samuel,” he said quietly. The man stood by the door, still clutching his rifle, face stricken with grief. “I am going to need your help to keep everyone calm and focused.” He set his hand gently on Samuel’s shoulder.

It took a moment, but Samuel pulled himself together and nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

As they left, Hawthorne spoke again. “If it was a lion, what kind of lion could carry off a man of Mahina’s size?”

Samuel’s skills as camp liaison ensured that the workers made their way back to the bridge. And Sam’s decision to spend the night in a tree near Mahina’s tent, his rifle at the ready, placated them further. But Sam’s own fears were far from soothed.

The night crawled on, and exhaustion weighed on his eyelids. He was always tired after a night with nightmares, but coupled with everything that had happened that day, he was exhausted. The memory of the nightmare plagued his thoughts even as he stared out into the grass, straining to see any unnatural movement, any shadow slinking through the twilight. The dream had been far too specific and the tracking evidence, which Samuel confirmed, told the same story. Tension waged war against tiredness, but, it was too much. He fell asleep.

Sometime in the dead of night, he jerked away, snapping the gun up to his shoulder even as he blinked away the dredges of sleep and a half formed dream of slinking feline shapes and yellow eyes and horrified screams. But the night was still and silent. Awake and tense again, Sam watched the rest of the night as it faded away. There was never a sign of a lion.

But once he got back to camp, it was clear something had happened. The workers were in even more of an uproar than the day before, and no one was at the bridge site. Through the cacophony of voices, he heard Samuel and Abdullah, who was the main spokesman for the Indian faction of camp and had stepped up to fill the void left by Mahina.

As Sam drew nearer, he heard Abdullah bellow, “You want us to work, even if we die doing it!”

“What’s going on here?” Sam demanded as he pushed through the crowd.

Despite his vocalness towards Samuel, Abdullah faltered when faced with a hollow eyed and armed Sam. “Malaria epidemic,” he stammered. “Very sudden.”

Sam took a careful breath and turned to face the uneasy crowd. “There is no reason for fear!”

“Oh yes?” Abdullah demanded, his frustration suddenly too great to be cowed. “There have been two dead now, in two nights!”

Sam felt himself pale. Had that half formed nightmare been prophetic as well? Someone bumped into his elbow, and he turned to see Angus. “There was a second death?”

Angus grimaced. “At the far northern edge of the camp. A man was out of his tent alone. There was even less of him than Mahina.”

It was all Sam could do to stop himself from clutching his head and groaning in frustration; a headache pounded behind his temples. The weight of the workers’ gazes was on him though, and he could not allow his own fear and confusion to show. “It’s too soon for a lion to kill from hunger,” he said to Samuel.

“In my village,” Samuel said, reading the unasked question in Sam’s voice, “we built thorn bush fences, and kept fires burning at night. That keeps the lion away.”

“Okay. Good.” He turned to Abdullah, who continued to seethe. “Send half your men with Samuel to build the fences. The other half will go to the bridge.” When he was offered no response, he continued, voice low and determined. “I will kill the lion. And I will build the bridge.”

After a moment, Abdullah nodded. “Of course you will.”

Some of the tension eased out of Sam’s shoulders and he turned to go.

Then, almost too quietly for Sam to hear, Abdullah added, “You’re white, you’re American, you can do anything.”

Sam stopped. He said each word slowly, carefully, gaze locked with the other man’s. “It would be a mistake not to work together on this thing, Abdullah,” he said, each word carefully measured.

A week went by; there were no more killings, and not even a sighting of a lion. Sam spent a few more nights up in a tree, rotating between the two kill sites, but when the only thing that happened was that he nearly fell asleep overseeing the bridge, he stopped. If the lion had moved on, or if the increased activity around the edges of camp had driven it away, Sam didn’t know or care. The bridge was being built, the workers felt safer, and the fences were nearly done.

Samuel had taken the lead initially with the fence building, but Angus had thrown himself into it without reserve. This meant Samuel had time to monitor and control conflicts all around camp. It also meant Angus staggered back to his tent every night, looking like he had fought a losing battle against every thorn tree in Africa. His hands and face were scratched and smeared with blood.

“I think he is trying for the wounds of Christ,” Sam muttered to Samuel one night as Angus soaked his lacerated hands in water and alcohol.

It was far too hot to sit near the large fire they had near their cluster of tents, so they sat just within the wash of its light. Each had a small cupful of whiskey, as a celebratory toast to a job well done on the fences, and the lack of death that week.

“We will make sure he doesn’t stick himself to a tree for the sake of us all," Samuel agreed in a low voice.

Angus heard them. “Oh, mock all you want. But I started with the small goal of converting the entire continent of Africa. But now I know my true calling is something far more difficult. I will not rest until both of you are safely in the fold.”

Sam half smiled and shook his head. “I’m beyond conversion. My mother was Roman Catholic, and my father is Protestant, and I wasn’t raised with either religion.”

“I have four wives. Good luck,” Samuel said, a laugh trickling up from his chest.

Angus waved his hands at them, and went back to his tent to tend to his wounds and undoubtedly plan his new crusade.

“You never talk about your family,” Samuel said after a few minutes.

Sam shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell. And it’s not like you talk about yours much, either. I just found out that you have four wives.”

“There might be a reason I agreed to work in Tsavo on this project… four wives are far too many. And we have been working together for a while now. I just thought it would be good to learn more about each other beyond what we are good at here, working on a bridge. So... your family?”

Sam shrugged again, gaze shifting off into the distance. “Well, like I said, there isn’t much to tell. My mother died when I was a baby. I haven’t seen my brother and father in years now. So it’s just me and Jess.” He couldn’t stop the smile that eased across his face as a bubble of warmth spread from his chest. “And in a few more months, our son.”

“You are so certain?”

“Jess is, and I believe her.”

“Good. Women are the experts in such matters.” Samuel took a sip of his whiskey, and then asked, “But what about the rest of your family? Your father and brother?”

Sam stared down at his cup. “We… we’re not on the best terms. We - mostly my dad and I - had a disagreement. A severe one. I wanted to go to school, to university, and he didn’t want me to. He wanted me to stay in the family business.”

“And that is?”

“Hunting.” Sam grimaced and took a long swallow of the whiskey. “Dean didn’t want me to leave. He said he wanted me to be happy, but couldn’t understand how or why I wanted to leave. And Dad… he said I might as well not come back. If I left.”

“Dean is your brother?”

“My older brother. Taught me everything I know about hunting, helped me study when he didn’t bother to study himself…”

“You are a good shot, Sam. You hunt here. Why didn’t you want to keep hunting, with your family?”

“I wanted _more_ , Samuel. I wanted _different_. We hunted, but it was some sort of revenge driven motive for my Dad. After Mom died… she was killed by some monster, my Dad always said. And he was determined to hunt down the thing that did it, and get rid of as many other monsters as he could.”

He was careful with his words. Outside his family and a few close friends they had, no one knew exactly what sort of creatures they hunted. If it had been known, they would have all been thrown into an asylum for madness.

Samuel cocked his head. “So you did what you are doing now, without the bridge building? Hunting man-eaters?

“Something like that.”

“What sort of animals hunt men in America?”

“Wolves.” _Werewolves_. “Grizzlies.” _Wendigos_. “Feral dogs.” _Skinwalkers_. Sam’s mind supplied him pictures of each of the monsters he had hunted, and the cover stories for each of them. Even as civilized as America has become, it was still very easy for people to believe that wild animals had done the attacks. There was no reason to ask further, to question lunar linked killing patterns, the lack of paw prints, the use of silver bullets.

“It seems that your past does not want to let you go,” Samuel observed.

“Too bad. Cuz I have let it go.” Sam slammed back the last of the whiskey and stood. “Good night, Samuel.”

 

 

  
*

  
The fence might have been finished, but a strong storm swept through a few days later and tore apart several sections with strong winds. The bridge suffered damage as well. So Sam sent Angus and a few dozen workers to fix the fences while he and Samuel went to the bridge. A headache sent jolts of pain through Sam’s skull as he worked, but he ignored it. There was nothing he could do but get everything sorted again.

A little past noon, a train arrived at the station with supplies and the mail. Samuel went to oversee the unloading process. When he came back, he was carrying a battered envelop in his hand.

“A letter for you.”

Sam stood up from where he had been hunched over a table of blueprints and tossed down his pencil with a smile. Jess’s familiar handwriting felt like a sudden cool breeze on his mind and spirit. “Thank you!”

“Good news?” Samuel wondered.

“I hope so,” Sam replied, opening the letter. After a few moments he chuckled and said, “She said that the neighborhood school children spotted a whale the other day. They were pointing at her.”

Samuel smiled indulgently, and watched the shift of joyous emotions over Sam’s face. “You like her, don’t you?”

Sam felt a bubble of warmth and fire swell in in his chest as he thought about Jess. It was too long since he had seen her. Even holding the paper with her precise script dancing across it only increased his longing to see her face again. But he had to make the best of his situation. The bridge was ahead of schedule, and if his luck held he would be back in London soon. “I do. Very much.”

“I don’t like any of mine.”

Before Sam could reply, screams and shouts of terror erupted from the edge of camp where Angus’ work detail was. It took a moment, but the screams took form.

_Simba!_

_Simba!_

_Lion!_

_Lion!_

“In the day?” Sam demanded. Then he took off running.

He was at his tent and grabbing his rifle before he realized Samuel was behind him, grabbing a heavy shotgun and an ammo belt from the rack. Then they were running again, fighting against the crowd that came galloping through the camp.

“Where is it?” Sam bellowed at large, but got no response. Snarling, he reached out and grabbed at the arm of a passing man. “Where is it?” he demanded.

The man, eyes wild, screamed and tried to pull away. Sam shook him and asked the question again. It took a moment, but he finally stammered, “The depot. Behind the depot.”

By the time they sprinted up to the building, the only person still in sight was Angus, who was a few yards ahead of them. Sam’s other rifle, the one Angus had taken on the first lion hunt, was clutched in his hands.

“Angus!” Sam snapped as he sprang onto the platform; the young man paused and looked back. “Stay here,” he ordered and slipped towards the edge of the building.

Angus listened, but only just. He fell one step behind and to the right of Sam, rifle at the ready. “It just sprang out of the grass and charged down a man. No hesitation.”

Sam didn’t speak, but just nodded. He rounded the corner and saw nothing, so he kept close to the building and went around towards the back. There was a wet, ripping sound from somewhere ahead of him. A quick glance behind him showed Angus still at the ready, and Samuel frantically loading shells into the shotgun. He stepped around the building.

A massive lion sprawled on the red dirt, halfway between the building and the long grass at the edge of camp. It was steadily ripping into the belly of the dead man, staining its tawny face and paws with blood. Sam stepped into a good position, taking care to aim; he wanted to put the thing down with one shot. If he didn’t it would only take a few leaps for the animal to cross the space and attack, or to spin and disappear into the grass. Angus skittered to his left, while Samuel stepped to his right. The lion lifted its head and snarled, pulling heavy lips away from massive fangs. Sam took a deep breath and released half of it; his finger eased against the trigger, taking in the slack.

An ear shattering roar erupted from behind and above. Sam spun in shock, rifle snapping up into the air, shot unfired. The sun blazed hot and bright into his eyes, and it took a moment for him to realize what he was seeing.

There was a second lion, pacing down the length of the depot roof.

The first lion roared in response. And then the second reached the edge of the roof and leapt down, right for Sam.

He twisted out of the way, and heard Angus yelp and Samuel cry out in fear. But he didn’t move fast or far enough. Pain blossomed white hot as the lion’s claws raked across his arm. As soon as he hit the dirt, he rolled up onto his knees again, struggling to lift the rifle and hold it up with his wounded arm.

The two lions glared back at him, suddenly unmoving. The wind shifted, and past the stench of blood and death, Sam caught the sickening scent of sulfur. His breath caught in his throat, but he couldn’t look away, and couldn’t move. The lions’ amber eyes locked with his, far too intelligent for mere animals. Then they both blinked.

From amber, their eyes had changed. The first lion’s were black as tar; the second’s had gone sulfuric yellow, with no pupil.

_Demons have black eyes, remember that Sammy._

_Yellow eyes, Sam. The thing that killed your mother had yellow eyes._

His brother’s and father’s voices echoed through his mind as he stared at the lions. But before he could shake off the shock, they blinked, and turned to disappear into the grass. Sam lugged the rifle up one handed and fired shots, but all he did was clip the top off of some grass bunches. The lions were gone.

“Two of them…” he panted. “Samuel, did you see, their eyes…”

It was then that he realized Samuel was babbling in his native tongue, oblivious to anything Sam had seen or said. He turned, and his heart plummeted.

Samuel sat in the red dirt, Angus’ head cradled in his lap. Blood still poured from massive wounds on the young man’s neck, claw slashes from jaw to collarbone. Angus was dead.

Sam dropped to his knees next to him. “Oh, Christ, Angus. I’m so sorry. This is my fault. Oh Christ. I should have protected you, this is my fault…”

 


	3. Reign of Blood

Tsavo became a nightmare. The lions attacked wherever and whenever they felt like. On the edges of camp mostly, occasionally near the bridge site, sometimes by the depot. They attacked and killed in the day, in the twilight, at the dead of night. Sometimes they attacked for several days in a row; one time they didn’t come near camp for nearly a week, but then killed two men in the middle of the day. They worked together, but they also worked separately, without fear of man, gun or fire, with no pattern or reason beyond bloodlust. There was nothing Sam could do to stop it.

The lions outmaneuvered him, and he could only be in so many places at once. The few armed guards that were in camp to help keep the worker riots to a minimum were not brave enough to hunt the lions either. Rumors began to fly about what the lions were, because it was clear they were no ordinary animals. Man-eaters were always loners. They did not hunt together. There had to be some other reasoning. And they were no longer just the lions. They were The Ghost and The Darkness.

The men repeated the theories back and forth to each other, building their own fear and the lion’s terror with every word.

_They are spirits of dead medicine men, returning to earth to spread madness._

_They are the devil. They have come to stop the white man from ruling the world._

The latter were closer than they knew to the truth. The lions were demons. Animals possessed by demons. It was something Sam had never heard of. Demons possessed people, that much he knew. They could be halted by salt, harmed by iron and holy water, expelled with exorcisms. You could trap them with carefully drawn sigils known as devil’s traps. Demons had been the last thing he had hunted with his family before he had left. And it had not been a good experience.

But he could not let the men see any of that. Their superstitions were strong enough to cause a panic that only added to the real terror of the man-eating lions, supernatural or not. If Sam was seen to cave to those superstitions, or similar ones, he would lose what little rational control he had over the camp. Nevertheless, he found himself painting out a devil’s trap near the door of his tent, hidden under the scrap of carpet he kept there as a welcome matt. He mixed rock salt in with the lead pellets of his shotgun shells, and kept a flask of holy water on his belt, next to his usual canteen. But he continued to reassure the men that the man-eaters were just lions. Bloodthirsty and mad, but just animals.

“What do you think they are, Samuel?” he asked one night as they sat inside Sam’s tent, listening for the sound of lion attacks.

Samuel was silent for a long moment, hands tightening around the grip of the rifle, shoulders hunched. “I know this,” he said after a moment. “They are evil. And what better place for evil to walk the earth than Tsavo?”

“What do you mean?”

“I said Tsavo is the worst place on earth. But this is what the word _tsavo_ means: a place of slaughter.”

 

 

  
*

  
Sam couldn’t do anything directly against the lions, at least not by himself. He tried, but the damn things seemed to mock him. If he was in the area when they made a kill, at least one of the pair would stop, look at him, and flash either the yellow or black eyes, as if to remind him of his inability to stop them without returning to his hunter roots. And the attacks were too irregular for him to focus on hunting them as well as maintaining control over the camp and building a bridge. Thirty men had been killed in addition to Angus and Mahina. So he sent off several telegraphs to Beaumont, requesting troops with firepower; the men had rallied behind the decision. He explained how it was nearly impossible to get the men to work at a decent rate if they were not only terrified but also being slaughtered by the lions. If the bridge was going to be finished on schedule, he needed the troops.

The answer he received didn’t do anything to put his mind at ease. Beaumont, clearly frustrated by the sudden lack of progress and believing that the lions were an excuse for Sam’s failings, said he would not send troops.

_I hired you under the assumption that you were competent. We are losing this race every day that you do not complete the bridge. Do you expect me to explain to the world that the British Empire failed because of a few minor difficulties with the local wildlife? If you cannot handle shooting a few overgrown cats, I will find a professional hunter who can. I have my sights on several, the topmost being Remington. Expect the help if I do not receive word that you’ve killed the lions and are back on schedule. If you can do neither, expect that I will use all of my considerable power to ruin your reputation as an engineer._

_I told you you’d hate me._

Sam crumpled the missive and threw it across the tent. He slumped in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his face, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. Shaving had fallen by the wayside the last few days; watching men under his charge and protection getting ripped apart did that. His gaze flicked to his writing desk, suddenly wanting to reach out to Jess, even just through a letter.

But he snorted. What would he tell her? That he was plagued nightly by nightmares of men being killed by lions with demonic eyes? That more often than not he woke to see the ground soaked in blood? That the deaths were his fault? No, that was a burden he could not put on her.

There was a rustle and a thump as Samuel approached the tent and knocked his staff against the ground. “ _Bwana_? What is the word?"

"We are on our own. Unless he finds a big game hunter." Sam sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more. "I have a plan, though."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Can you have an empty boxcar taken to the northern side of camp, near the edge? Most of the attacks have been taking place there."

“Your plan needs a boxcar?”

“It’s a good plan,” Sam said defensively. “I used it before on a tiger in India.”

Samuel’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Ah. It worked there?”

“Um… actually, it didn’t. But the theory is sound.”

After a long moment, Samuel said, “I will have the boxcar moved.”

It was a simple plan, which upheld Sam’s belief that it would work. With the materials easily at hand, it took less than a day to set up. The boxcar was transformed into a trap. It was surrounded by a sort of funnel of the thorn fences, which encouraged the animal to an opening opposite the car. One end was blocked off by sturdy bars that were sunk into the floor of the car and bolted to the ceiling. The other end was open, but would be sealed off by a falling door made of the same heavy bars and chains. A tripwire would trigger the door when the lion entered. Then, with the animal in the confined space and a shooter safe behind the bars, it could be shot.

At least that was the theory. The first time he had tried it, the tiger simply had refused to be lured inside, despite all efforts to do so. It had been a man-eater, but a rather wary one. These lions, who scorned every sort of rule about when and where to attack, seemed far more likely to enter the trap. Yet, they were not ordinary lions. So after the workers had left, he painted a devil’s trap on the ceiling in dark paint, so it would not attract attention. And he put a line of salt down around the base of the bars. He reloaded bullets with iron rounds and doused them in holy water. His one shotgun was kept near and the shells filled with rock salt.

All that was needed was bait. Sam was certain the lions were in fact coming after him. It made sense. The yellow eyed demon that had killed his mother, the fact that the attacks didn’t start until he arrived… and even if they weren’t specifically targeting him, he had the duty to protect the men. He was the only one who knew the true nature of the lions. He had to be the one who was bait. So night after night, he stayed in the boxcar.

The attacks stopped. There were no lion sightings. And Sam was once again dangerously sleep deprived. But he was convinced that the trap would work. It was believable enough that an ordinary lion would enter, and once inside, the devil’s trap would keep the demon from fleeing. Shooting the lion wouldn’t stop the demon, but it would put it out of commission and keep it trapped until Sam could exorcise it and burn the body for good measure. So he kept the trap baited.

Surprisingly, finding volunteers wasn’t as hard as he thought. Three men from the Indian side of camp actually approached him. They were two brothers and a cousin, who, along with thieving and possibly murdering in their youth, had also hunted tigers successfully for the British railway on occasion. Their rifles were in good shape, and their aim steady. So Sam let them spend their nights in the boxcar, and lightened their duties during the day so they would stay fresh.

His own nights were not much better than they had been. Nightmares and strange dreams resurfaced. Flashes of demonic eyes slipped in an out of his peripheral vision as he walked across the night time grassland, rifle in hand, struggling to find his way to somewhere. Other times all he saw was blood. Blood would pool wherever his hands touched, and the screams of dying men filled the air. And always the stench of sulfur mixed with the wild stink of the big cats fill his nostrils. He would wake in a cold sweat, exhausted. And the trap remained empty of anything besides the three hunters.

Then, one night, his dreams shifted form again. He recognized it. It was the same feeling that had overcome him when Mahina had been killed. But it was different, as well. He saw from all angles. He was the lion as it swept across the camp, following the line of the thorn fence. He could see the three men, dozing behind the bars of the trap. And despite his awareness of the situation, he could not force himself awake.

He watched as the lion stalked up to the trap, felt the coiled strength of its muscles, saw the hunters still sleeping. The lion’s paw brushed across the tripwire, and the door slammed down. With wild gasps, the men sprang to their feet. There were several heartbeats of silence as men and lion regarded each other. Then, with a roar, the lion sprang forward.

The scene became a confusion of movement and sound and terror. Sam saw everything at once, the impressions and images overwhelming him, but he managed to snatch at details. The lion slammed, not into the bars, but just short, stopped by the line of the devil’s trap. But the reverberation of power hit the men, and they started firing. Bullets snapped and sang around the trap. Roars continued to shake the air, and the men screamed in return. A wild shot sent a bullet towards the roof. It cut a chunk of wood out, and broke the devil’s trap.

The lion sprang again, and slammed its massive bulk into the bars. They rocked and shook in their sockets. The demon’s eyes twisted to black as it hit the line of salt. It couldn’t cross, and slammed its body against the bars again. They jiggled and broke the salt line. The lion’s massive paws reached through the gaps, reaching for the men. One man dropped his rifle and scrambled to the back of the trap, trying to get out. Another jumped back and knocked over the lantern in the corner. The burning oil set flame to the straw scattered across the floor. Fire filled the trap in seconds.

One man still had his rifle and fired a few more shots. They whizzed past the lion and hit the chain on the door, breaking the link. A gap was made, and the lion spun and leapt out into the first grey hints of dawn.

Sam woke with a gasp, soaked with sweat and terrified. From across the camp, he heard the terrified screams of the three men as they worked their way out of the now burning boxcar. But as proof as to how much the lions had terrorized the camp, there was no reaction. Everyone stayed in their tents and stayed quiet, hoping the lions would not come for them next. Sam slumped back and threw an arm over his eyes. True dawn would arrive soon enough.

 

 

*

  
Despite the fact that he had “seen” the whole incident, and the men were properly shamed and eager to correct their mistakes, Sam’s temper flared. Standing in the rather charred and still smoky interior of the trap, his voice snapped like gunshots in the small area.

“Of course it was _moving_! Did you expect it to sit down and pose for you?” He glanced towards the ceiling and saw the notch in the wood that had broken the devil’s trap and swore. “This worked, the plan worked. He came in, got trapped,” his voice rose, “and was less than _fifteen feet_ away from the _three_ of you, and you couldn’t even _wound_ it!” He turned and stomped out of the boxcar. “I should have given you slings and rock salt, not rifles.”

Samuel met him around the corner of the trap. “There is not a trace of blood, just tracks.”

“How could all of them missed every one of those shots?”

“It does not matter!” Abdullah appeared from the rear of the trap. “The devil has come to Tsavo!”

Sam repressed the urge to roll his eyes. It was a demon here, not the devil, nothing more. And Abdullah had been increasing the unease in camp rather than settling it. Sam had had enough of him.

“You don’t believe that, and you know it. They are just lions.” He strode past him.

“Now you are telling me my beliefs?” Abdullah rushed to keep up with Sam’s long strides. “I don’t think so!”

“I wasn’t and you know it, so don’t force it!” Sam snapped before taking a deep breath and continuing after the line of lion spoor in the red dirt to where it disappeared towards the tall grass. “You’re right. We do have a problem in Tsavo…” It was only then that he realized what had been rumbling on the edge of his hearing.

A crowd of men surged into the space between the thorn fence funnel and the grass. Samuel stepped to his side, but even the presence of the camp liaison wasn’t enough to slow the crowd.

“Finally, we agree!” Abdullah crowed. “We do! You are the problem in Tsavo!” The men roared in agreement and surged up behind their leader.

Sam’s temper flared at the display of rebellion and overall stupidity. But a tide of fear swept over him as well. He had barely maintained the respect of the men over the last few weeks, and if he lost what little he had now, there would be no turning back. Even if he managed to kill the lions and get rid of the demons, getting the bridge built on time seemed more and more unlikely. He couldn’t back down now.

He felt his chest puff out, his spine straighten, and he glared down at Abdullah. “Be careful-”

But Abdullah refused to be cowed. “You don’t tell me ‘careful’, you don’t tell me anything!” The mob shuffled forward; work tools were hefted like weapons. “We are sick and tired of your lies!”

“What lies?” Sam demanded.

“You say that these are just lions, but you paint wards around your tent! You painted a ward on your trap. There is salt and iron among your bullets! There is a stink of sulfur wherever the animals go! And it did not start until you came, Lion Man! These are not lions, they are devils! And you brought them!”

Abdullah’s knowledge rocked Sam for a heartbeat. Civilians were never supposed to know about the monsters in the dark, it was one of the rules of hunting. Leave the bystanders as innocent as possible. But worse than that was the added fear and superstition, which would only fuel the insanity of the men. Already a chant of _Lion Man, Simba Mtu, Lion Man,_ rippled through the crowd.

“Listen to me,” Sam started.

“No! You listen while I talk, now!” Abdullah shouted as he stepped up into Sam’s space, the mob surging forward.

Before Sam could react, a long barreled pistol appeared and pressed against the side of Abdullah’s head.

A deep, whiskey-rough voice said, “Change of plans, Chuckles.” Then his voice snapped out over the crowd. “Get back! Get them all back!”

Samuel and Abdullah both shouted in a tangle of three different languages, and the crowd shifted away, stunned and unsure. Sam stood rooted in place.

Everyone’s attention shifted from Sam and Abdullah to the stranger. Tall, though not as tall as Sam, he towered over the rabble-rouser and most of the mob. The pistol wasn’t his only weapon he wore openly; a rifle was over one shoulder and a strange shaped knife hung from his belt. His clothes showed signs of hard wear but were of good quality. His face was strong jawed and weathered by the elements, but his eyes were sharp and hard as he glanced around to ensure the mob had backed off.

“Now,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “you listen while I talk. Cuz you got a question that needs answering. Will I pull this trigger?”

“You don’t know what has happened here!” Abdullah began, voice wavering.

Samuel said sharply, “He will pull the trigger, Abdullah!”

“The devil has come to Tsavo!”

The stranger smirked, but the curl of his lip resembled a snarl. “You’re right. The devil has come to Tsavo. But you know what’s worse? Me.” The pistol pressed a little harder into Abdullah's turban. “I’m the thing that gives devils nightmares.”

There was a long moment before Abdullah said, “I’m a man of peace.”

The smirking snarl twisted into an ironic grin as the stranger swept a slow glance around at the now silent mob. “You sound like a man who wants to live.”

“Most certainly. Absolutely. Yes!”

The pistol clicked as the man uncocked it and then slipped it into a holster. “Good choice. Abdullah, right?” After getting a nod of affirmation he said, “I’m sure we’ll meet again. The camp isn’t that big.”

“I think it’s been a pleasure.”

The stranger smirked again and turned. “Hey ya, Sammy,” he said.

“Dean?” Sam breathed, still frozen in place.

“You have any other big brothers?”

Sam couldn’t believe it. Tsavo was the last place he’d expected to see his brother. Or his brother was the last person he expected to see in Tsavo. But it was Dean. Older, harder-edged and apparently more dangerous and just as much of a protective older brother than Sam remembered, but still Dean.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. It came out harsher than he expected.

There was a flicker of annoyance and pain across Dean’s face. “I’m doing the job, Sammy, which is more than you can say.”

Sam huffed out a pained laugh. “The job?”

“Saving people, hunting things, the family business. Or did you forget?”

“I didn’t forget, Dean; I just wanted a normal life! Are we seriously going to have this argument again? After all these years?”

“Nope. Cuz I’m not arguing. And we have things to do. Or at least I do, if you’re not into the hunting thing anymore. He glanced at the crowd. “Though from what they were saying, you haven’t forgotten everything I’ve taught you.” Then his gaze turned to the grassland border, and he said, “Hang on.”

He whistled sharply, and with a wild war whoop, a dozen Maasai warriors sprang into sight. Sam stared with the rest of the crowd as the red-dyed warriors chanted and stomped their feet and leapt into the air in a strange dance. The Maasai were renowned for their lion-hunting skills; they hunted the big cats with spears and shields and pure athleticism to prove their manhood. The long, leaf-bladed spears glinted in the sun as the shafts thumped against rawhide shields. Dean waved at them, and the display ended.

Dean turned to Samuel and held out a hand, and then pulled the other man into a back thumping hug. “Good to see you again, Samuel.”

“And you,” Samuel agreed with a broad smile.

With a gesture at the Maasai, Dean said, “You know I’d rather do the job alone, but at this point I figured I needed the help. I wasn’t sure if it was actually just lions or demons until I got here. They want ten head of cattle for their services.”

“Very well.”

Sam looked between the two of them in shock, unable to speak.

“I need to finish sorting my gear, but I’ll see you both later,” Dean said, but he looked at Sam the whole time. He grinned and said, “It’s good to see you again, Sammy,” and then strode off into the dispersing crowd.

It took a few moments, but Sam finally managed to speak. He turned sharply to Samuel. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew him? When did you meet him?”

“You did not ask. And as you did not speak happily of your family and your past, it was not my place to bring up the topic. And I did not know that Dean would come here. You never said which hunter Beaumont was sending.”

“He just said that he was looking for Remington… oh damn it,” Sam trailed off, looking in the direction Dean had disappeared. “I’ll be back. I have to talk to my brother.”

 

 

*

  
He found Dean halfway across camp, unpacking a bag onto a cot. A cot he had dragged into Sam’s tent and shoved in the one empty spot. Sam stopped by the entrance and took a deep breath.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

“You’re supposed to be the college boy, here, Sammy. Did they drill all the common sense outta you there?”

Sam didn’t rise to the bait and decided to be as direct as possible. “Beaumont said he was going to get Remington.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean broke a sawed off shotgun open at the breech and glanced down the barrel before turning a grin back at Sam. “I figured we’ve got the same last name as one gun company, why not use another one? Beaumont didn’t do his research as well as he thought he did. He wanted a hunter with the name Remington. He got one.”

“Where’s Dad? If we are really hunting the yellow-eyed demon here, where is he?”

Dean actually blanched. “I lost track of him. We were on separate hunts. I was finishing off a wendigo in Colorado, and he said he had to follow a lead with the yellow-eyed demon. He thought it was going to London. By the time I got out of the mountains, I couldn’t get into contact with him. Even Bobby can’t find him.”

“Dad can stay lost if he wants too, he’s done it before,” Sam replied sharply, “I’m just surprised he wanted to stay lost from you.” Then Dean’s other statement hit him. “London? Oh, God, Jess!” He turned to the entrance of the tent before he realized what he was doing, visions of black eyes and the stink of sulfur closing around Jess.

“Whoa, hold your horses!” Dean reached out and grabbed Sam by the arm, stopping him and spinning him around. “She’s fine.”

“And how do you know?” He fought to get loose.

“Cuz I checked on her before I left, and had a couple hunters - Tamara and Isaac - set up to keep an eye on her.”

“What? Why? Why would you do that?”

“Cuz she’s your wife. And there were demon rumors flying around. Better safe than sorry.”

“But…” Sam felt his brow pinch in confusion. “How did you know where she was? I haven’t kept in touch with you or Dad for these past years. Dad said if I left, I should stay gone, and I did.”

Dean took a careful breath. “Sammy, you know Dad. He gets mad as hell and can stay that way for a long time. But when you left, and then went to college, and got married… he was damn proud of you. Still mad at you, but proud. We kept tabs on you, with help from Bobby.”

There was a long stretch of silence as Sam tried to come to grips with the fact that the family he thought had left behind hadn’t stayed that way. He blinked a few times and then said. “Thanks. For keeping an eye on Jess. But I’m still going to send a telegram to her, now.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Dean allowed. “But we have to deal with these lions of yours.”

“I don’t need your help here,” Sam said automatically.

“Listen, Sammy. I don’t want to steal your thunder. I don’t want to have anything to do with the bridge. Hell, I don't even care about any recognition for killing the man-eaters. But you’ve got a camp full of twitchy, way too superstitious and observant natives, a real issue with lions, and probably a real demon problem. I’ll do the job like I always have, and be outta your hair.” Dean eyebrows lifted suddenly, “Which should get cut, really. They were calling you Lion Man because of it, weren’t they?”

“You’re an asshole, you know that, right?” Sam said, but a faint smile tugged at his lips.

“It’s only cuz you’re my oversized little brother. So, what do you say we go and kill some demons?”

“We can’t kill demons, Dean. Even you should know that. We can kill the lions and exorcise the demons.”

“We can kill them,” Dean argued. “With this.” He lifted the long barreled pistol that he had threatened Abdullah with.

Sam stared for a moment and then gasped. “Is that...?”

“Samuel Colt’s pistol? Yep.”

Sam held out a tentative hand and Dean handed the gun over. It was heavy, but well balanced; the octagonal barrel decorated with twisting vines and a Latin inscription Non Timebo Mala.

Sam whispered, "I thought it was a legend."

"And we thought vampires were extinct," Dean said, and added at Sam's shocked expression, "Hey, if you're out of the game for as long as you were, you’re gonna miss stuff.” He shrugged. “But this gun will kill anything.” He narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute. Backtrack. You said that we’re hunting Yellow Eyes. I said it was in London. Why would you think it’s here?”

“I saw it,” Sam said after a moment. “One lion showed up, killed a man, and then the second came, killed my friend Angus. One had black eyes like any demon, and one had yellow eyes.”

“Son of a bitch. It really is here,” Dean breathed. Then he lifted the Colt again. “This’ll kill the yellow-eyed demon. He won’t be back when we’re done with him.”

Sam felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. Dean was here, and as much as it had upset him, he instinctively fell into the old patterns of working with his brother. And the addition of the Colt… for the first time in a long time, since coming to Africa, he felt balanced again. “So, when do we start?”

Dean grinned. “That’s my boy.” He holstered the pistol and picked up his sawed off shotgun. “I gotta go talk to the Maasai. Go tell Samuel that we’re hunting lions in the morning.” But even as Sam sighed and turned, he said, “Hang on a second, I changed my mind. We’re going to the hospital.”

“Why?”

“I have a hunch.”

At the hospital, Dean walked straight in, but stopped with a cough and hand over his nose and mouth. “Yup, just as bad as I thought.” He glanced back at Sam as if to make sure he was still there, he said, “Alright! I want a new hospital put together, and done by tomorrow night.”

Hawthorne appeared from the rows of mosquito netting. “What? That’s a terrible idea, moving everyone, moving all the equipment.”

“You’re the doctor, right?” At Hawthorne’s nod, he continued waspishly, “Oh, I get it, you must know best.”

“And who the hell are you?” Hawthorne demanded.

“I’m here to get rid of your lion problem. But since you’re so smart, I won’t bother telling you that this place reeks of flesh and blood, and what that might do for a man-eater. Or the fact that there are tracks right outside, which means they’re probably thinking that this place is overdue for a hit.” Dean got up into Hawthorne’s space and stayed there, face still and blank.

Still by the door, Sam tensed. Dean looked passive, but still and silent was one of his more dangerous modes.

Several long heartbeats later, Hawthorne blinked and looked down. Dean didn’t shift, but he raised his voice to the entire room, “If anyone thinks I’m an idiot, speak now or forever hold your peace!”

With a sigh of defeat, Hawthorne glanced back up, but still didn’t meet Dean’s eyes or say a word.

“Good.” Dean turned and strode back out of the hospital.

Sam followed and found himself instinctively matching his strides to Dean’s. “What was that all about?” he asked when they were out of earshot of the hospital.

“The place is a mess, Sam. Even you can see that.” Dean didn’t slow or look at him.

“Yeah, but why do you care? It’s not exactly like you to be humanitarian.”

“That tin shed is on the edge of camp. If we move a big chunk of everyone more towards the center of camp, it’ll give us space to lay down devil’s traps and get the lions in range of the Colt.”

“Then why are the Maasai here?”

“They’re gonna help drive the lions into range out away from camp, like we would normal lions. If we can’t get them there, we’ll get them here in camp.”

Sam stopped. “You have two plans? Two? Who are you and what did you do to my brother?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean stopped and turned, getting well into Sam’s space.

Sam didn’t back down. “Dean, you were not the guy planning any of our hunts. You were content to run out and shoot the first monster you saw.”

“What, just cuz I didn’t go to college means I’m an idiot?” He snorted. “I’ve been hunting on my own for a while now, Sam. A guy learns a thing or two.” He walked away without a backward glance.

For a few long moments, Sam just stood there, blinking. Dean had changed. But so had he. He had gone to college, traveled halfway across the globe, got married and started a family. Hunters didn’t do that. Hunters also didn’t stay alive long if they didn’t learn how to adapt and gain new skills. That was what Dean had done. When it had been the three of them hunting together, it had made sense that they all had their roles - Dad leading and finding hunts, Sam researching, Dean focusing on the actual hunt. Sam began to see what his departure had done to that unit. That fracture had forced Dean and Dad to shift and redevelop their skills.

It was just a strange feeling, to see his brother changed. So many things had felt natural as soon as Dean had shown up. But the change in both of them was undeniable. Sam took a careful breath and followed his brother’s path, back towards the center of camp.

 

 

*

  
The rest of the day flew by, and as darkness fell, the Maasai built up a massive bonfire, leading one of the ten cattle into the circle of light. Deep throated chants broken by high pitched yips rose into the air with the sparks of the fire and the lean bodies of the warriors as they jumped in rhythm.

Weapons and gear ready for the next day, Sam found himself wandering down to the Maasai’s little camp. Everyone else was tucked into their tents, having been equally cowed by the display that morning. He didn’t get too close to the ceremony, not wanting to disturb it. But the movement and sound, sketched out against the backdrop of flame was mesmerizing. The chanting beat a puse that didn’t quite match his own, but wove with it. The unknown words and careful rhythm infecting him with a strange impulse to move, to hunt.

“Yeah, it’s catchy.” Dean’s voice cut through the spell the Maasai had woven.

Sam blinked rapidly. “What?”

“The ritual. They’re trying to convince each other that they’re still brave, basically.”

“So it’s nothing more than a massive pep talk?”

From the fringes of camp, one of the tiny herd of cattle was brought into the ring of dancers. It was a young bull from the looks of it.

“Yeah. I was worried the first time I saw it, because it involves blood, and really, I still don’t quite understand what they are chanting.”

“Blood?”

“Yeah.”

Even as Sam turned his attention back to the dancers, one of the warriors went up to the bull and jabbed at its neck with a long thin knife; a stream of blood followed, black in the firelight. The bull bellowed, but it was held firmly by its nose ring. The warrior lifted a wooden cup to the wound, and the other dancers stopped their chant to whoop and gather around. Then, as the cup was lifted and passed around, a new chant was started.

“Yeah, that would worry me a bit too.”

Dean grimaced. “They tried to convince me to join them, the first time I hunted a lion with them. But it was too much like a vampire for me to deal with.”

“Vampires drink _human_ blood.”

“Apparently some rough it out on cattle blood.”

Sam blew out a breath. “You’re right. I have missed a lot.”

“I’ll get you caught up,” Dean said with a grin. “Can’t have the guy watching my back be slow on the uptake.”

“Dean,” Sam started slowly, “You do know that after this hunt is over, nothing’s going to change right?”

“What? Of course it will change. I need your help tracking down Dad.”

“And why are we tracking down Dad? If he wants to stay lost, he’ll stay lost.”

“That’s the thing, Sammy, I don’t think he’s purposefully staying lost. He was tracking Yellow Eyes. Hell, I expected him to beat me here. The fact that he’s not…It’s not like him to stay gone this long without saying anything.”

Sam sighed. “Look, let’s just deal with the lions. I need to get the bridge built. Then I need to get home to Jess and our baby. And then, if for some strange reason Dad still hasn’t turned up, I’ll consider helping you look for him.”

Dean didn’t say anything, and turned to look out back towards the fire. “Then let’s kill the bastards tomorrow.”

The Maasai ceremony promised to last well into the night, so Sam left Dean and went back to the tent to catch what little sleep he could. He was almost there when Hawthorne appeared.

“Can I help you, Doctor?” he asked, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice.

Hawthorne held out a slip of paper. “A telegram came in for you. And I wanted to offer you this.” He held out a rifle. “It’s more powerful than yours. I thought you might need it tomorrow. I can’t come on the hunt, with setting up the new hospital.”

“I didn’t take you for a hunter.”

“I’m not, but I do like a well-made gun, and collect them. I have several rifles and a few revolvers to rival the one your brother has. And I want those damn lions dead just as much as you. There are too many people getting ripped apart. As a doctor, I take offense to that.”

Sam took the telegram, stuffed it into his pocket and accepted the rifle. It was a good looking gun, but it felt strange in his hands. He preferred his own weapon. Besides which, all of his ammunition had been prepared for demons as well as lions. “Thank you, but I can’t. I know my guns, and besides, you probably should keep a weapon here as back up.”

Hawthorne frowned, but took the rifle back. “I have back up. But if you see it that way… Good luck tomorrow. I hope you kill the bastards.”

“That’s the plan,” Sam replied, and walked away.

Finally in the tent, he remembered the telegram. He barely managed to let the lamp catch and flare to life before trying to read it.

_Darling Sam STOP I love your concern but ask you to not worry STOP I am healthy STOP Our son is fine though not here yet STOP We will still visit you in Africa STOP I even have found possible traveling companions STOP Tamara and her husband Isaac have been keeping me company and also wish to see Africa STOP Take care of yourself and I love you STOP Your Jess STOP._

It wasn’t the same as seeing her handwriting, but he clearly heard her voice as he read. The decision to not tell her about the lion trouble bothered him now. If things did not go as planned tomorrow and it took longer to kill the lions, how could he tell her not to come?

“We just have to kill the bastards, then,” he muttered and blew out the lamp.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my research, the word _Tsavo_ showed to mean, not as Samuel puts it here, "a place of slaughter", but rather "river". (So the Tsavo River is a bit redundant). But the effect in the film and in the fic couldn't be ignored, so it stayed, as erronous as it may be.


	4. The Hunt

The Maasai sent out scouts before dawn, but it was nearly noon before the hunting party arrived at the stand of trees the lions had been tracked to. It was in the dip of a small valley, which created a natural funnel. The sun blazed down hot and sharp, with no wind to relieve the heat. But it also kept their scent from alerting the lions.

Sam pulled his hair into a tail to keep it from getting in the way and then checked his rifle and ammunition again. Beside him, Samuel shifted nervously and clutched at his own gun, one that Sam had made sure was loaded with anti-demon bullets as well. Ahead of them, on the last ridge above the trees, Dean and the highest ranking Maasai were discussing strategy. The rest were standing together, making final preparations to their weapons. Their massive headdresses of either ostrich feathers or what Sam would guess was actually lion’s mane tossed strange shadows across the grass. They were an impressive sight. But it still didn’t ease the knot of tension in his belly. Demons couldn’t be killed or stopped by spears.

Samuel swallowed hard again, and checked the rifle again to make sure it was loaded.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

“Yes. And no. But Dean asked me to be along on the hunt, so I am here.”

Sam squinted towards his brother, who was heading back towards them. “Why did he ask?”

“He knows that I am afraid of lions,” Samuel replied, his own gaze flicking between the Maasai and their headdresses and the stand of trees.

“And he wants you to get over your fear,” Sam said. “He can be like that. Big brother protectiveness sometimes means throwing you in the deep end so you learn how to swim.”

Samuel turned rather worried eyes to Sam. “I don’t know how to swim, either.”

“You two ready?” Dean called out softly as he approached. At their nods he said, “The lions are down in the thicket somewhere. The Maasai are going to drive from the low end, towards the ridge. Samuel and I are going to be waiting for them. Sammy, I want you up towards the center, where you can see the ridge and where the lions should come out. Put a few bullets in the bastards as they go by to slow them down. Let’s go.”

They splintered off into their groups, Dean and Samuel disappearing into the brush near the ridge, the Maasai loping off and forming a U shape at the end of the valley. It took Sam a little bit longer to find a satisfactory spot. There weren’t many open spots heading towards the ridge, and fewer with a spot that afforded a decent view in all directions. By the time he found a bare tree overlooking a clearing about midway down the valley, strange, trilling whistles sounded from the low end of the valley. Sam hurried up and peered down. The Maasai were disappearing into the thicket, the red of their body paint disappearing into the green shadows.

The tree didn’t have much in the way of branches, but there was a wide, sturdy V on its upper edge, and Sam wedged himself in there, back braced on one side, feet set in the center. It gave him a stable perch that he’d be able to move and shoot from in a wide range. He just had to be ready when the lions appeared.

Sweat soaked his hair and ran in beads down his face as the sun blazed right above him. There was no sound from the valley, and he could hear his heart beat, the rate climbing in excitement and terror. What if the lions snuck up on the Maasai and slaughtered them, silent and methodical? And if they lions were driven to the end of the valley, could Dean get close enough for a shot with the Colt and not get hurt? The edges of a headache built behind his eyes, and he scrubbed at his face, smearing sweat and only blurring his vision.

A scream rose out of the trees, and Sam spun, rifle flying to his shoulder before he had formed a complete thought. But even as the first scream started, a wild rush of war cries began, underlaid with the hollow thump of spear shafts on shields, and the jangle of metal. The warriors apparently were in position and were ready to spook the lions out into the open. If these lions could be spooked. The headache ratcheted up another level, and images started to spark on the edge of his vision.

He blinked rapidly and swung back to look over the clearing. Birds had erupted from the trees at the shouts of the Maasai, but nothing else moved. The shouts and whoops continued, and he twisted in his perch, struggling to see. It had seemed like an ideal location at the time, but now he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t see Dean anymore, and there was no sign of the lions. A twinge of pain behind his eyes made him wince. He couldn’t stay up in the tree. He had to find a better spot.

Without thinking, he scrambled down and hurried off through the brush, heading towards the valley floor and the clearings there. The headache throbbed in time with his pulse but he ignored it. Thorns and the tangled thicket slowed him down as he moved; sweat dripped into his eyes and blurred his vision. The shouts of the Maasai grew louder and sent little spears of pain through his ears into his brain. All of his senses seemed to condense and collide right behind his eyes. And then they exploded into white.

When the white and pain receded, he was on his knees on the edge of a clearing, clutching his head and screaming in agony. He took several deep breaths as the pain became manageable, picked up his rifle, and stood. The sounds from the warriors continued on, but they were pushing in a direction parallel to where he stood. He must have gotten himself turned around when his head had decided to explode. Scrubbing sweat out of his eyes, he turned and looked for a high point that he could orient himself from.

The low, thunderous rumble of a growl stopped him. He turned towards it.

Directly across from him, at right angles to the Maasai’s line, a lion stepped out of the thicket and stopped, eyes locked on his. Heavy lips pulled away from massive fangs, and another growl rolled out into the thick air. The lion blinked and its eyes went sulfur yellow and pupilless.

Sam snapped the rifle to his shoulder; the lion didn’t move, save for the occasional lashing of its tail. His finger found the trigger, and started to tighten when a spike of pain stabbed behind his eyes. He blinked, and it stabbed again, leaving an after image of faint colors and shapes. When his sight swam back into focus, he steadied the rifle at the lion again. Before he could fire a shot, his vision exploded into a tangle of images and pain.

He saw a home he didn’t remember, a face that was more familiar from faded photographs, her blonde hair tickling his face as she bent to kiss him goodnight. Then, there was a dark shadow over him, and the taste of copper and sulfur on his tongue. Screams filled the air, and flames, and then everything twisted to white pain again.

And a quiet, haughty voice seemed to whisper through it all. _Oh Sam. Is that any way to act?_

But another voice cut through the agony and confusion. “SAM!”

He was on his knees again; one hand fisted in his hair as if ripping it out by the roots would soothe the other agony, the other clutching at the ground. Dean’s voice tore through the air again, and he picked up the rifle again.

“Sam! Shoot the damn thing!”

He staggered to his feet, eyes sweeping around the clearing. The lion was in the same position, yellow eyes blazing in triumph. Dean shouted at him again, and he saw movement from his left; Dean and Samuel were pushing through the underbrush towards him. The lion growled again, and Sam lifted the rifle, sighted, and pulled the trigger.

The hammer clicked down. And nothing else happened.

“SAM! SHOOT IT!”

Another rifle cracked, and a bullet whizzed past the lion’s head, cutting a stripe of hair from the mane, but doing nothing else. The lion turned and roared towards Dean, who was still yards from the edge of clearing. He didn’t flinch, just swapped the rifle for the Colt and fired. The bullet spattered into the dirt near the lion’s front paw. Sam, head still aching and eyes blurry, scrambled with his rifle, ejecting the bullet in the chamber, and reloaded. He looked up in time to see the lion snarl and turn away, disappearing into the underbrush again.

For several long moments, he couldn’t move. His entire body ached, and his vision was still blurry from the pain in his head. The events of the last few minutes were disjointed in his memory, broken by the strange images that had flashed through his mind when the lion - the demon - had looked at him. Then Dean’s hand was on his shoulder, both rough and comforting as he demanded to know what was going on.

“‘m alright, Dean, leggo,” Sam slurred.

“Like hell you are,” Dean replied, and hauled Sam to his feet. “What just happened? Why the hell didn’t you shoot the bastard?”

Sam managed to stay upright, and his head cleared a bit. He struggled to remember what exactly had happened. “My gun misfired,” he managed.

Dean groaned and stepped back, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Really? My guns don’t misfire, and I taught you everything I know about ‘em, so why did yours?”

“Maybe because I dropped it.” He squinted against the sunlight, but the pain was mostly gone. “I don’t know what happened. My head just felt like it was going to explode, and I saw a bunch of stuff...” He stopped when the leader of the Maasai called out to Dean, an edge of fear in his tone.

Dean acknowledged them with a short nod, and looked back at Sam. “We’re not done talking.”

“Isn’t that usually my line?” Sam wondered absently.

He didn’t get an answer, but a half-formed smirk flittered across Dean’s face before he turned to the Maasai.

 

 

  
*

  
The warriors left that day. Though they maintained their proud demeanor, the undercurrent of fear was undeniable. They were just as certain as the workers that the lions were devils and not natural. It was not their lot to hunt such creatures.

Though no more mobs were formed, Sam felt his control over the workers slip. Those detailed to help with the new hospital continued their work briskly, but it was more that they were respectful and fearful of the sharp-tongued Hawthorne than of Sam. The rest working on the bridge staggered about, the speed and quality faltering, even from what it had been at the height of the lion attacks.

Dean saw it as well, and while he made no attempt to actually address the workers, he made sure that his own efforts against the lions were seen. And that as little demon-hunting activity could be seen. He observed the efforts on the hospital, which would be completely finished well before sun down. Then, with Sam and Samuel in tow, he started his preparations on the old hospital.

Despite having just given ten head of cattle to the Maasai, Dean had another one slaughtered. The blood was collected in buckets and sloshed on the path up to the hospital and on the walls, slabs of meat tossed down around the tin building and up to the door. Even in the fading heat of the day, it reeked and flies swarmed in black clouds.

“What is this?” Sam demanded in a low voice as he poured out the last dribble of blood and tossed aside the bucket. “This is disgusting and a waste.”

“We have to draw the lions here.”

Sam tossed a quick glance around to make sure none of the workers were in earshot. Samuel was shooing them away, not that they needed much encouragement. Everyone was eager to get away. “They’re demons, what the hell are you planning?”

Dean straightened from the wheelbarrow filled with cattle parts. He glanced at his gore covered hands, grimaced and then said, “Demons are demons, yeah, but we’ve always seen them act human… until they get kill-y.” He reached up to wipe at sweat trailing into his eyes, and just smeared blood across his eyebrow. “I figure the same with the lions.” He found a rag and cleaned his hands before grabbing a brush and a bucket of paint and going into the old hospital.

“I really don’t think that they’re going to get excited about a bunch of dead cows,” Sam said.

“Well, it’s not just the cattle that’s gonna be here.” Dean walked to the back door and started to paint a devil’s trap on the floor. “We are too. Cuz for some damned reason, I think that Abdullah was right. I think they’re after you.”

“What are you saying?” Sam asked. A pit opened in his stomach, and he fought back the sudden wave of fear. He knew exactly what Dean was talking about.

Dean put down the paint and turned to face him. “Sam, I saw you in that clearing. The gun misfired, yeah, but you were on the ground, holding your head, screaming. You said you saw stuff - which you still haven’t explained. And the attacks didn’t start until you got here, about the same time Dad started tracking leads on the demon to London and beyond? And the damn thing was in your nursery when it killed Mom.” Dean’s voice was thin and laced with pain.

“So you think it’s my fault Mom died? Christ, Dean, don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I’ve beat myself up wondering if I had never been born, that Mom would still be here for you and Dad?” His voice rose and echoed in the empty room. “Don’t you think I feel every fucking ounce of blood that those demons have spilled since I’ve been here, because every day I’m more certain that they are here to get me and torture me in the process? I can’t sleep, between the screams and the nightmares! Don’t you think that I’m both relieved and terrified that Jess and our baby are thousands of miles away from me right now? Because I am not there to protect them, but if I’m not there, the demon might not go after them? Because I am! I’m fucking terrified! Because I keep seeing things I shouldn’t! What happens if we kill the demon and that part doesn’t change? What if I really am a freak?”

He stopped, his entire body quaking with emotion, so that Dean wobbled in his vision. With an impatient motion, he swept the sweat and tears away from his eyes and took a deep breath. Dean hadn’t moved, except to be somehow drawn tighter with tension and bowed under guilt. Sam already knew what Dean’s thought process was; he was the older brother, it was his job to protect Sam from everything he could. But he hadn’t, and the only thing he could do now was change that. And Dean’s words confirmed it.

“Let’s kill the bastard, and not worry about them again.” He grabbed the paint brush and started on the devil’s trap once again. “Then we’ll sort everything else out.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Dean managed to make small talk while they finished their preparations. He joked about Sam’s “artistic abilities” with drawing sigils, though his own were just as precise. Hawthorne offered to join the brothers in killing the lions, apparently wanting to show his skill and make up for the lack of confidence he had shown in them earlier. Dean waved him off, saying that Hawthorne and Samuel both deserved a night where they could sleep without worrying about the lions. When they brought three more steers into the shed to help act as warning bells, Dean made cracks about how they were lucky they were the tough old things, which had saved them from being made into steaks; at the same time he made sure they had water and fodder before being tied up inside.

They shut the doors and bolted them - one with a heavy wooden bar, the other with a chain wrapped through the holes where the handles had been - so the lions could only make their charge inside and into the devil’s traps strategically. Though Sam had more trust in his and Dean’s abilities, there was no need to risk repeating the incident at the rail car trap.

Then, there was nothing to do but wait.

Bonfires blazed up around the camp as night fell; the fires had never really seemed to stop the lions, but they had become something of a nightlight for the workers. Samuel stopped by on his way to his tent, reporting that the new hospital was finished, and all the patients settled in, and even Hawthorne had to admit that it was a better situation. The rest of the camp was still uneasy, though. The only thing to reestablish order would be to kill the lions, and get back to work on the bridge.

Before long, the camp fell silent. The fires crackled and threw strange shadows about, but nothing else moved or made a noise. Even the cattle were silent, only twitching their tails occasionally to swat flies. Sam wandered from one window to the other, stepping up on stools and a bed frame that had been left behind. Dean leaned against one of the support beams, checking and rechecking the Colt. Then he glanced up at Sam, and chuckled quietly.

“What?” Sam stepped down from the bed frame with a hollow thump.

“You, man,” Dean said with a smirk. “It’s just funny thinking about you going back to your normal life after this.”

“I did it once,” he replied flatly.

“Yeah, I know, but it doesn’t mean that it has to stay that way…”

“Have you forgotten that I have built a life for myself? That I am married, and starting a family?”

Dean rolled a shoulder in a half shrug. “No. Hard not to. But it’s just that, you know, we could be more like a family again.”

Sam fought back a half laugh. “And what? Have you and Dad try to teach the baby exorcisms along with nursery rhymes? Have rosaries and spent shotgun shells as toys? Family reunions where you stagger, beaten and bloody from dealing with who knows what, and having some horrible cover story to keep Jess’s family from figuring it out?”

“Give me some credit; I’d clean up before showing up.” Dean tried a half smile, but it faltered. “Yow know what, never mind.” He turned and stalked over to the chained door, peering out into the dark.

“Dean.” He took a deep breath and pushed away his frustration. “What exactly do you want from me?”

It took a few moments, but Dean finally faced him, shoulders bowed and eyes not quite meeting his. “I just want us to be a family again, Sam. No more not talking, no more sneaking around in shadows trying to keep tabs on you with you pretending we don’t exist.”

“But Dean…” Sam struggled to put his fears into words. “I… Jess and I are having a baby. And I don’t want to raise my son like Dad did to us.” He gave a shaky laugh. “And I’m scared, man, on so many levels.”

“I would be too. Having a kid is rough. I remember dealing with you, everything from dirty diapers to teething, to that girl you had a crush on when you were twelve...” Dean grimaced, lost in the memories.

Sam blinked a little, and then let out a shaky laugh. “You know what? Never mind, you are going to be around after we kill these things. Cuz I want your advice on how to raise a child. I mean, you practically raised me.”

“Oh, this conversation is over as of now. I ain’t dealing with a kid again. I’m gonna be the cool uncle, and you’ll have to do the dirty work.”

“This conversation isn’t over,” Sam replied with a grin.

“Oh, it is. But I don’t think a demon is going to show up with us having a heart to heart. And if it does, I don’t want to be caught like that.” He shuddered dramatically.

“You know, I leave for a few years, and some things never change.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re still not funny.” Sam smirked and turned to climb up to the window again.

Dean snorted. “Shut up. I’m hilarious.”

A few moments later, they both fell silent. The night crept on, quiet and still as the fires burned down. Sam felt lethargy settled into his muscles and mind, and shifted from window to window, door to door to find a breeze and stay active. Dean paced, going around the building, stopping to check and recheck the devil’s traps.

A little past midnight, the cattle became restless. They shifted and pulled at their tethers, bellowing. Dean drew the Colt, and Sam lifted his rifle, when the entire building shuddered with the impact of a heavy body as it slammed against the barred door. A deep, bubbling growl cut through the tumult.

“Come on, you bastards!” Dean roared back and lined himself up with the door, the Colt level and steady in his hand.

There was a sudden thump directly above their heads. Sam fired at the roof, the heavy hunting round ripping through the corrugated tin. More thumps echoed across the roof and Dean shot several times with his rifle as well, but there was no reaction. Heavy bodies slid across the roof, but there was no indication where they landed.

A shadow flicked by the other door and the chain rattled. Sam spun that direction, but one of the steers pulled loose from his tether, and careened around the building. It slammed into Sam with one flank, knocking him off balance. With another terrified bellow, it twisted away and skittered towards the other door. Dean swore, twisted out of the way of its horns, and grabbed the rope still dangling from the steer’s head.

“Settle down!” he growled.

“Not such a great idea, huh?” Sam asked as he joined Dean wrestling the steer.

Dean slammed his shoulder into Sam’s and bit out, “Get your eye back on the demons, what the hell are you doing?”

Grimacing, Sam spun away and lifted his rifle. But the only noise and movement was from the cattle. “I didn’t want you getting run over,” he said in a low voice as Dean finished retying the steer.

“Not gonna matter much if the demons rip us up.” He joined Sam in the center of the room, back to back.

“Where are they?”

“Don’t know. But that damn steer messed up the devil’s traps. This could get real interesting, real fast.”

“Great. Gah!” A sudden flare of pain drove through his head, and he felt his legs wobble with the force.

“Sam?”

“I’m...okay. But the demon-”

A shrill, terrified scream cut through the night, and even as it was choked out, it was followed by a huge wave of terror and pain. Sam screamed as well, the pain in his head spiking up again, blanking out the world into a twisted mess of white and half-formed images. He saw the lions ripping through the rows of cots at the hospital tent, killing and maiming without care. Then the images twisted again, and he was back in his nursery. A dark shape stood over him, yellow eyes blazing from the shadows. He heard his mother’s frightened but defiant voice, then her screams of pain. Everything was washed in flames and heat. With a final twist, Sam found himself kneeling on the dirty floor of the hospital, all but sobbing.

“Sam? SAM! Talk to me!”

Sensation and thought reorganized, and Sam felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder, saw his own hands clawed against the stained wooden floor. And he heard the screams from the other end of camp.

“Sam? You good?” Dean asked again.

He managed to look up; Dean’s gaze darted between him and the direction of the new hospital, muscles tensed and jaw clenched. He took a deep breath and staggered up. “The hospital,” he panted. “Let’s go.”

Dean handed him his rifle and they took off.

The run across camp seemed to take forever. Spikes of pain and random images still shot through Sam’s head, but he forced his legs to keep moving. A voice twisted through the images, an aftertaste of the pain. It was too muddled for him to understand it, but each heartbeat made it clearer. It was one word, repeated over and over.

_Sam…_

“Sam!”

Dean’s voice cut through the pain and the terror, and he staggered to a stop. “Oh, no,” he whispered as his vision cleared.

“Ah, fuck,” Dean said. “Doc, you should have stayed away.”

The tent that the new hospital had been set up in was shredded and ripped down in places. Blood stained the white canvas and turned the dirt to rust colored mud. Bodies were strewn about, and the cries of terror and agony from the men who had survived the rampage continued on. But there would be no doctor to tend to them; Hawthorne’s body lay near the center of the carnage, his powerful rifle next to him in the bloody mud.

“Why the hell would the demons do this? They are after you…” Dean’s voice was weak.

It took several moments for Sam to answer. The ache in his chest was too much. “They are after me. And they’re doing a fucking good job at it.”

 

 

  
*

  
Night had ended with a flood of blood. Day began with a flood of bodies leaving camp. The train that was still at the Tsavo station pulled out just after dawn, every inch of it covered with people. The workers crowded into the boxcars, sat on top of them, packed themselves on the flatcars, and clung to the same bench that Sam and Angus had arrived on. And from his perch near the center of the train, Abdullah shouted and waved at the stragglers to hurry up. He glared at Sam, defiance and the pain of loss etched onto his face. There were a lot of men who had come to Tsavo that wouldn’t be leaving. There had been a mass burial not long before dawn, alongside a massive funeral pyre. The wind shifted, bringing the scent of smoke and blood. The train steadily picked up speed as the last few men clambered up.

Sam watched them go. There was nothing he could do to stop them. And he didn’t want to. The demon lions had killed more than enough before the hospital. Those that had been slaughtered in the night only added to the black guilt that had been weighing on him since the first kill. It was time to put an end to this madness.

He turned to see Samuel standing a few feet away, clutching something in his hand. Sam didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could say. The deaths of all those men were literally on his head. And Samuel had lost friends in the slaughter.

“Sam,” he said quietly, and lifted his hand. The lion claw necklace, from the first lion, hung from his fingers. “One of us has to be brave.”

He nodded, and took the necklace, slipping it over his head. After a few moments, he asked. “Where’s Dean?”

“The edge of camp, not quite to the bridge.”

With the camp all but abandoned - Sam found a few people lingering, those whose home villages were nearby - it was quiet, peaceful. If he didn’t take a deep breath, or look at the abandoned traps and the destroyed hospital, he could almost forget the death of over a hundred people. But only for heartbeats at a time.

He found Dean pacing aimlessly. The grassland opened up on one side, leading up to the rugged foothills, and the river with the unfinished bridge framed the other. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Dean nodded towards the bridge. “You know, I’ve never given you enough credit, for all your college learning. It’s a strong looking bridge, Sammy. Even half finished. Didn’t really notice it until this morning…”

“We haven’t exactly been on speaking terms until recently, for you to tell me.”

Dean huffed something between a sigh and a laugh. “Yeah, that’s true.” He plucked at the seed heads of the tall grass absently. Then he glanced up at Sam, eyes lingering at throat level. “You get jealous of me having a cool charm, and had to get your own?” He tapped the bronze amulet that had hung from his neck for years.

Sam touched the lion claws. "I gave you that, and no. But Samuel said that they will protect me, and bring luck. And he said that someone has to be brave right now."

"He's not wrong." Dean looked away again.

Sam looked over to the bridge. He saw all the things wrong with it, the half-finished pieces, the abandoned equipment. But he also saw the strong foundation, and the potential. And he suddenly knew that he could finish it, and rebuild another bridge as well. “You remember that saying you used to throw at me when stuff would go wrong? Usually when some sort of idea I had failed, or I got in a fight? Something about boxing and everyone having a plan until they got hit. And then the getting up was up to you.” Sam looked back at Dean and caught his eye, flashing a half smile. “What do you say?”

“What I’ve said since I got here. Let’s kill the bastards. But this time, let’s take the fight to them.” Dean’s grin turned feral. “I wasn’t just admiring your bridge this morning, Sammy. I think I found where the lions have been holing up. Or at least the route they take in and out of camp consistently.”

“What’s the plan? And you know I am going to help and tell you that you’re an idiot.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  



	5. All Hell Breaks Loose

  
"You do realize that this is the stupidest idea we have ever had?" Sam asked.

They were almost an hour's hike away from camp, rifles loaded with consecrated iron, packs filled with rock salt, holy water and grease paint. A well-worn, lion-marked path cut through the dirt and led into the foothills, in the opposite direction that the Maasai hunt had taken them.

“I don’t know, you remember that time with the bees and Bobby’s shed…” Dean started, but at a look from Sam, he stopped, grinned sheepishly and said, “Yeah, okay, this is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done. But if it works, it will be awesome.”

“I’m more concerned if it doesn’t work,” Sam bit out.

“Ah, come on, stay positive! They aren’t going to expect us to come at them like this!”

“Or they are, and they’ve set their own trap.”

“Either way, we’ll be in pistol range.”

“And how many shots does this gun have again? I recall from the stories that it wasn’t that many.”

“We’ve got three shots left, that’s all we need. There are only two lions.”

Sam took a deep breath. “We are fucked.”

“Only if you keep that negative attitude.”

They ended up hiking for another hour, the terrain growing rougher as the mountains crept closer. Caves started to open up in the sides of cliffs and hills. A tributary to the Tsavo River traveled down out of the mountains, and they had to cross it several times. But each time, the massive tracks of the lions reappeared.

“They aren’t even trying to hide their trail,” Dean muttered.

“Demons are arrogant.”

“Yeah.” But there was a hint of doubt to his voice.

The stream cut in front of them again, narrow and easily spanned by a single stride as it cut through a narrow neck of rock, and for a few minutes, they lost the trail. Then, the wind shifted, and brought the stench of death, decay and big cat.

Dean grimaced and said, “I think we’re still on the right track.”

It wasn’t hard to follow the smell to a cave, half hidden by a stand of thorn bushes. But where stone didn’t show spoor, the thorns had nabbed clumps of tawny fur.

“I think we’re here,” Sam whispered.

“Right. Let’s prep.”

The packs opened. Sam took a canister of salt and drew a half circle about ten yards from one side of the cave mouth to the other, to block the demons’ escape. Dean had pulled out two small lanterns that could be clipped to a belt and lit them. He handed one to Sam, and then pulled out the grease paint. Then, with a quick nod, they stepped carefully over the salt line and went into the cave.

Despite being the middle of the day, little light made it more than a few feet past the cave entrance. The thick thorn bushes and the overhang of rock made sure of that. Without a breeze inside, the fetid odor became stifling, thickening in the humid air; sulfur permeated through the rot. Sam choked back a cough, and took the greasepaint from Dean, who slipped a few steps further into the cave, the Colt up and cocked.

Sam slipped his arm through the rifle sling and let it dangle from his shoulder and took the lantern from his belt and pointed it towards the roof of the cave. It only took him a few sweeps of the light to find a relatively smooth and flat section that he could reach, just inside the entrance. The greasepaint squelched on the damp rock but didn’t run, and in short order, he had a devil’s trap painted. Then he tossed aside the paint and joined Dean, his rifle at the ready.

Dean caught his eye and signaled to go further into the cave. Warning bells started to go off in Sam’s head. They had no way of knowing how big the cave was, if there were side passages where the demons could ambush them from and if the lions were even in the cave at the moment. But a few more steps in showed at least the size and shape of the cave.

It was relatively shallow, with only a few yards of narrow passageway before it opened up into a massive room. As their lights swept through it, Sam felt his mouth go dry and his stomach lurch in sickness. Bones covered the floor like a macabre carpet, glinting in shades of ivory to dull rust brown. Human bones.

Dean made a disgusted sound. “They kept trophies?”

A bubbling growl reverberated around the room. The beams of lantern light twisted and jumped until they cut across the massive body of the lion, sprawled across a stone shelf at the far end of the cave, a demonic king of the beasts. The growl continued as it rose and stepped down, crossing the room towards them. Bones rattled and snapped under its feet.

“Back,” Dean snapped.

Sam spun and felt Dean’s shoulders hit his as they hurried back through the narrow passage again, each watching the other’s back. “Where’s the other one?” he panted.

“Dunno. But if he was outside, he’s not getting past the salt line to get in. Stop.”

Sam pivoted again and stood shoulder to shoulder with Dean, a step from the narrowest point of the passageway. The demon stood just yards away, bottlenecked. Its eyes suddenly flashed sulfur yellow and seemed to glow of the own accord from the darkness.

The lights from their lanterns had barely settled enough to see properly, when Dean fired the Colt, aiming for the two yellow eyes. At the exact same instant, Sam swore his head exploded. The sound of the gun, fired in the cave, hit him as a spike of white hot pain tore through his head. He felt his body jerk sideways and hit Dean, heard the bullet hit stone, and a strange voice echo through his mind.

_Sam. Always so difficult._

Still reeling, Sam tried to stand upright again, but Dean was pushing him back towards the mouth of the cave, and the pain kept spiking through his head, and the lion suddenly roared, the sound even louder than the gunshot.

The pitch of the lion’s roar changed suddenly and Dean staggered. Sam collapsed back against the wall. Dean was frozen, head thrown back, and a stream of black smoke twisted from the lion’s mouth to his.

“NO!” Sam screamed, but it was too late.

The lion’s body collapsed to the ground, dead. Dean stood frozen for a long moment, before turning slowly to face Sam. His eyes turned yellow, and Sam’s blood turned to ice.

“Well, this makes things a bit easier. Hey ya, Sammy Boy.”

“You get out of my brother, _right now_ ,” he snarled.

“But why? It makes it so much easier to talk.” He turned and took a few steps around the cave, staying away from Sam and the devil’s trap. “Hm, you’re brother has potential. Not as much as you, but he’s stayed sharp, hunting for as long as he has.”

Sam felt sick. It was his brother’s voice, his brother’s body, but something was off. The inflection was off, the words not quite right. And while Dean had always moved like some sort of alpha predator, especially when they were hunting, he moved differently now, slow, but deliberate, and graceful. It was almost as if the demon couldn’t quite shake the powerful, almost sensual movement of a big cat and was trying to translate that into Dean’s muscles. It was so wrong.

“ _Exorcizamus te_ ,” Sam started, but the demon spun around.

“Oh, we can’t have that, we haven’t talked yet!” He flicked Dean’s hand, and Sam staggered, coughing as the air was driven out of his lungs by an invisible hand.

Rage and fear boiled through his blood, and he shoved back. The grip of demon power slipped, and with an inarticulate roar, he charged forward. He aimed to drive his shoulder into Dean's midriff, but the demon staggered back several steps before he even touched him. The Colt fell from his grip, and Sam scrambled for it. The demon regained his balance, sighed, and took a step back towards Sam. And then stopped.

“Oh, really? The devil’s trap? I guess that worked out for you.”

Sam fought to calm his breathing and his mind. The demon was caught, and it would be the easiest thing to exorcise it and free Dean. But if he did that, the demon would be sent to Hell, and could crawl back out - in a year, or ten, or one hundred, it didn’t matter, the thing would be back. And Sam couldn’t let that monster have the chance to wreak more havoc. He had the Colt, which would kill the demon, but he wouldn’t shoot his brother. So he straightened his shoulder, lifted the Colt, and looked at the demon.

“Why are you after me?”

The demon rolled his eyes. “What makes you think this is about you?”

Sam just stared back.

“Okay, so it _is_ about you, Sam. You’re my favorite, but you threw a wrench in the system when you moved to London and got married. I have to say, at least you stayed a little sharp by hanging out with the army and hunting man-eaters. Otherwise, I would have had to gotten rid of your pretty little Jess.”

“You even _think_ about touching Jess, and I’ll-” Sam snarled, feeling a roar of rage fill his chest.

But the demon interrupted. “What? You’ll kill me? I thought that was the plan for you all along. Relax. Your pretty little wifey is safe. You’re here. I have your brother. She isn’t in the way right now.” He rolled his shoulders and flexed. “Damn, but I should have got Dean. He’s sharp, a hell of a hunter, and has a lot of anger. But, he’s not you, Sammy. You were always my favorite. You always had the most potential.”

“What. The. Hell. Are. You. Talking. About.” Sam ground out the words, his jaw aching as he clenched it.

Whether it was that the demon liked having a human voice after such a long stint as a lion, or because he did actually want to talk with Sam, it continued to speak. “I have plans. They are quite big plans, and tie into some other very big plans, and they’ve been a long time in the making. Thing is, I kinda need you back in the good old US of A. It has to do with locations and tools… speaking of which, I really do need to thank your daddy and bro for finding this thing.” He pointed to the Colt. “It was a big piece of the puzzle.”

“Stop talking in circles.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. I have an army. It needs to get out. This gun opens a gate in Wyoming. Thing is, I need someone to lead that army. I’m not a leader, really, just an organizer. I like logistics. I need a general. That’s where you come in. But you are a little out of shape, so I thought I would help things along. Get you back in hunting mode, figure out a way to get you back stateside. Again, your brother managed to fall into my plans very well. So I started getting you back into the hunt, and tried to help flip the switch on your powers.”

"I don't have powers," Sam started, but the demon lifted an eyebrow, and he stopped. "The nightmares? The headaches and vision thing?"

"And you just pushed me into the devil’s trap, which surprised me, but I take it as a good sign," the demon replied. "Got you started young, Sammy. Gave you something better than all vitamins that you could ever have."

"What?" But even as he spoke, the memory of his nursery, and the sick, thick taste of blood and sulfur flooded his mouth.

"That's right," the demon almost purred.

"I have demon blood in me?"

"Only way to do it. You and a handful of others. I can only have the best leading my army."

"You bastard," Sam snarled.

The demon shrugged. "Doesn't matter what you think of me now, Sam. You'll come ‘round."

"Not before I am done with you," he snarled. " _Exorcizamus te…_ "

"I thought you wanted to kill me," the demon asked.

"I do. But sending you to Hell will screw your plans up long enough to make sure I can make my own plans to stop you for good."

The demon flinched and sighed. "Sorry, Sammy, can't have you messing up my plan. I need you ready, though. So how about this." He pulled out Dean’s spare pistol and pressed it against Dean’s temple. “You stop now and we continue our discussion like intelligent adults, or I kill your brother.”

Sam said a few more words in Latin, and the demon's finger tightened on the trigger.

"I really wouldn't. Exorcisms always hurt, and if I twitch the wrong way..." He made a wet, splattering sound.

"Fuck you," Sam snarled. "What do you want to discuss?"

“Here’s a plan. I let your brother go. You don’t kill me. I’ll even let you keep the Colt, cuz you’ll need it, and I can’t very well carry it while I am a lion. But, when I call, you come to me, and you play your part in these plans, just like you were supposed to. That way, no one you love has to die.” The demon lifted and spread Dean’s hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “That way we all win.” His eyes glowed sulfuric yellow through the gloom.

Several long moments passed; Sam felt his muscles locked tight with indecision. He would not let Dean get hurt, could not risk Jess getting hurt, but agreeing to the demon’s plans was not something that he could do either. “How do I know you’re good for your word?” he finally ground out.

“I told you, Sammy boy. You’re my favorite. I’m willing to play nice to make sure everything works out for you.”

He snarled, but lowered the Colt and tucked it into his belt, and reached up to break the devil’s trap. “Get out of my brother.”

The demon lifted the small pistol again in a blur of motion and fired it at Dean’s head. The small bullet tore across his temple and side of his head. Blood instantly sprang from the wound and spilled down his face and matted in his hair. Sam screamed inarticulately, but the demon just rolled its eyes.

“Relax. I am giving you an alibi. Dean shot at the lion, the bullet ricocheted, hit him, and you two have to get out. If you try to shoot me when I’m in my fur coat again, I will have to kill Dean. Capisce?”

Sam couldn’t answer. Bile boiled in his gut and up his throat. One part of him still couldn’t believe he was making deals with a demon, the demon that had killed his mother, but another, stronger part couldn’t let Dean be killed. He would find another way to kill the demon and stop whatever plan it had, but he had to save Dean now. Finally he just nodded.

“Good boy.”

The force of the demon leaving threw Dean’s head back, spattering blood and ripping a scream from this throat. Black smoke coiled and twisted back into the darkness, and Dean crumpled to the floor. Sam dove forward and caught him just before his head hit the ground. Behind them, the lion stirred, a growl echoing through the cave.

“Dean!” Sam shook him and tapped his face, praying for a reaction. He got it.

Dean blinked up at him, face scrunched in pain and confusion. “S’mmy?”

Sam got Dean's arm over his shoulder and managed to get him to the feet. "Come on, Dean, we gotta go."

Dean shook his head, as if shaking water out of his eyes. "Sammy?"

"Demon, lion, we gotta go."

“Shoot it.”

“It’s pissed, and you’re hurt, I need to get you out now.”

“No, gotta kill the demon,” Dean muttered, even as his knees buckled. The cave was eerily silent.

Sam managed to keep Dean upright. “Not today. We’re not even sure if the cave does go back further than that chamber. I need you to help me Dean, and we can’t kill the thing if I’m worried about you falling over.”

It took a few moments, but Dean finally nodded. “‘kay.”

“Let’s go.” He hefted Dean higher, tightening his grip on his arm and belt as Dean fought to keep his feet in order. They stumbled out of the cave and instinctively stepped across the salt line to keep it intact. A thought flicked across Sam’s mind and made his stomach twist tighter with guilt; he was suddenly grateful that the demon had shot and thus confused Dean. There would have been no way he would have left the demon alive otherwise.

Less than a hundred yards from the cave mouth, the rocks rose on one side of the path like a wall, while the other side was covered in broken and tumbled boulders. Dean walked like he was in the middle of a three day bender, at complete odds with the true rotation of the earth. Sam fought to keep him upright and move quickly. He’d agreed to the deal, but he didn’t trust the demon.

Just as Dean managed to get his feet back under him, a roar filled the air. The second lion, eyes black as ink, galloped across the boulders, leaping effortlessly from one rock to the other. Before Sam could react, the beast slammed into them. Dean disappeared from his grip, something tugged at his belt, and the world roiled in a kaleidoscope of grey and green and tan until his face slammed into a boulder. Everything went white for a heartbeat, and pain exploded from his right cheekbone and above his eye. A paw flipped him over effortlessly and pinned him to the dirt. The stink of rotten meat filled his nose and mouth as the lion lowered its head, fangs aiming to envelop and crush his skull.

The Colt barked. With a cut off roar and a wild crackle of energy, the lion twitched and staggered. Sam saw lightning spark through the massive, tawny body, just before the lion’s legs gave way. He managed to twist away and then wiggle the rest of the way out from the body, gasping for breath.

“S’mmy? You okay?”

He staggered to his feet and saw Dean propped up against the rock wall, blood streaming from his forehead yet, the Colt held loosely in his hand.

“Yeah. How about you?”

“Good. Good. A little sleepy.” His head tilted forward and his shoulders slumped.

“Hey, hey!” Sam rushed over to his brother and shook him. “Don’t go to sleep Dean. I need to get you back to camp and patched up.”

Dean blinked and turned his still muzzy gaze up towards Sam. “Fine. Bossy. Help me up.”

Sam grabbed him under the arm and hauled. It took a few seconds, but Dean managed to find his feet again, at least standing still. He started to move, but saw the lion.

“We gonna skin it? Your boss might be happy with proof.”

“What? No. I don’t give a rusty damn what Beaumont says. And you need to get patched up; can’t do that out here.”

“But…”

“Tell you what - we get back to camp, I’ll send Samuel and whoever is left back here to skin the damn thing if you want.”

“Cool. Should make a rug. And get the other one. One for each of us.”

“Okay, sure, just start walking.”

It took them about twice as long to get out of the foothills than it had taken to get into them, but by the time they reached the plains again, Dean was at least walking on his own. He continued to squint through the pain and bright sunlight, but he rarely stumbled. And he had started complaining, which as Sam recalled, meant that Dean was more pissed than hurt. If he didn’t talk, it meant it was bad.

“Freaking sun, since when did it have to be so bright, huh? And what the hell did that bullet ricochet off of, the only thing in there was the lion . . . is it made of metal or something now as well as being a demon? I can’t believe . . . ow, damn it, where did that rock come from? Can’t believe we didn’t pack canteens, man, what were we thinking? How did I lose my backup pistol?”

Sam didn’t bother to react to most of Dean’s ramblings.

“Why didn’t you shoot it, Sammy? Even if I was down, you could have done it.”

He took his time answering, pretending to focus on the rough terrain. “I told you. You shot, went down, I ran over to you, made sure you were still alive, grabbed the Colt. By the time I could have gotten a bead on the lion, it had ran back into the cave. And I wasn’t going to risk it ambushing me without backup. I had to get us out of there if we wanted to fight another day.”

“Shoulda risked it. I would have been fine. There was no place for it to ambush you…”

“What, not from either side of the chamber where it came out of the passage? Or from a ledge?” Sam spun to face Dean. “And would you have left me, if I’d been the one shot and bleeding?”

Dean grimaced and glanced away. “No. But I’m the older brother.”

“And that doesn’t make you right, it just makes you older,” Sam snapped back. “Let’s get back to camp. We have more planning to do.”

“Right,” Dean snorted and kept walking, struggling to keep up with Sam’s pace. He grumbled and spat. “Seriously, canteens. Water. We need to remember that next time. Blegh, I can still taste sulfur. What did I do, swallow some while I was out? At least it wasn’t lion shit…”

The cold pit in Sam’s stomach grew. But he didn’t want Dean to know what he had done, what he had agreed to with the demon. He didn’t want Dean to know that he’d been possessed. A shudder ran down his spine.

“You alright?”

“What? Yeah. Just… sympathetic shudder for you eating lion shit.”

“I didn’t! Unless I did, and because it was a demon it tastes like sulfur… son of a bitch.”

 

  
*

  
When they got back to camp, they found that Samuel had consolidated all their belongings and a decent amount of supplies around their tent.

“It is only us, now,” he said in explanation. Then he took in their dour expressions and Dean’s blood stained face. “It did not go well, then?”

“Wrong,” Dean crowed, as he pulled a med kit out of his duffle, along with a fifth of whiskey. He took a pull of the liquor and then handed everything to Sam. “We got one of the bastards.”

Samuel’s eyes went wide. “You did? How?”

“It jumped at us. And I shot it.” Dean tapped the Colt. “Hurry up and stitch me, Sam, we need to celebrate!”

“Fine.” Sam looked up at Samuel. “Are we really the only three left?”

“Not exactly. There are about six men, but they are planning to leave tomorrow. Their villages are less than a day’s walk from here.”

“Can you persuade them to follow our trail back up, and skin that dead lion? They’ll be paid, reassure them of that.”

“I will try. But what about the other lion?”

Sam pressed his lips into a firm line, and calculated his words. “He’s sly. I doubt he’s going to try anything today. And if he does, he’ll come after me.”

“You are so certain?” Samuel’s voice was filled with concern.

Dean piped up. “You do seem pretty confident, there, Sammy. What’s up?”

“He just lost his partner in crime. It takes awhile to adjust to that.”

“You can say that again,” Dean said, a dark edge to his tone. Then he shifted and pointed at his head. “You gonna do this or what?” He turned to Samuel. “You gonna be okay with going to get that lion?”

“It is dead, isn’t it? And if something happens, I will climb a tree. And take all of your guns.”

Dean barked a laugh that turned into a yelp as Sam pressed a whiskey soaked rag against the wound. “Jesus, Sammy, who taught you your bedside manner?”

“My big brother.”

“Ha, ha, ha.”

Once the blood was wiped away, Sam was able to see the wound better. “You won’t need stitches. Well, maybe a couple.”

“Keep ‘em small and even. I don’t want my looks ruined.”

“I can only improve what I see here.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Samuel shook his head. “I do not understand. I had brothers, but we did not act so.”

“Your brothers weren’t Sam,” Dean said, at the same time Sam said, “Dean wasn’t your brother.”

“My point. I will go and see if the others will help with the lion.”

“Take my rifle - ouch! - or at least a shotgun,” Dean managed around stitches going in.

With an iron-loaded gun in hand, Samuel left. Dean carefully reached and grabbed the whiskey bottle, taking a swig between the last few stitches. “I’m gonna have to go to the river for a swim later or something,” he said. “I still feel dirty.”

Guilt twisted Sam’s gut but he said nothing. If Dean noticed anything, he didn’t react. Instead, he took another drink, waited until Sam was done with the last stitch and then stood to wander around the tiny little corner of camp. Sam repacked the med kit; plans, ideas, and wild thoughts ran through his head almost faster than he could truly comprehend them. The revelations of the yellow-eyed demon terrified him. He wanted Jess here, so he could protect her. But he also wanted to just ignore what he had been told, what he had seen happen to his brother.

 

  
*

  
The half dozen men that Samuel rounded up made short work of the lion, and delivered the skin without incident. But despite having just seen how exactly flesh and blood the beast was - there had been no talk of sulfur - they could not be enticed to stay. They kept to their edge of camp, and began the trek back to their home villages that evening, instead of waiting for dawn.

Dean and Samuel were both in celebratory moods. When Dean went to the depot to send out a telegram to Beaumont’s agency with the good news of the lion kill, it took some time for him to return. Not, as Sam suspected because he had to send the telegram himself, but because he had snooped and found a cache of champagne in the depot. Either it had been on its way somewhere, or the station manager had taken it as payment for something. But it was theirs now. And the ‘demon lion is dead and his skin is drying next to our tents’ party began.

They were all full grown men, none of them strangers to drinking, but apparently none of them were used to the sweet bubbly stuff. And they drank a lot of it. Samuel became incredibly giggly. Dean went incredibly relaxed, and was also hit by occasional giggle fits. Sam let the alcohol soak into his bloodstream, but even then he couldn’t relax.

“Wha’s wrong, S’mmy?” Dean asked at one point close to dawn.

“Nothing, Dean. Just celebrating.” He took another swig of the champagne to prove his point.

Dean frowned. “No, cuz you’re not really happy. I know! You’re upset because you missed your baby bein’ born.”

“No, because that…” he trailed off and swore. “Damn. He should be born any day now.”

Dean stood, wobbled for a second, and patted Sam on the shoulder. “It’s okay. You were busy killing lions and demons. And just remember, I want to be able to hold my nephew, too, when we see him.”

“Fine. But sober up first.”

Dean snorted. “I’m fine. I’m not drunk.” He staggered a little as he tried to walk into the tent. “Okay, maybe a little drunk.”

“Yeah. Just a little.” He stood as well, deciding that sleep was more appealing than continued celebration. The world rocked around him, and he grabbed onto the first thing he could - Dean.

They both staggered and nearly fell. Across the bonfire, Samuel let out a deep belly laugh. “You two. I would help, but…” he lifted his nearly empty bottle of champagne, “I am no better.”

“Thanks anyway, S’mm’el,” Dean slurred. “Com’n little bro, time to sleep it off.”

Dean’s telegram clearly made it to the right people, because within a few weeks, the workers who had fled were either rounded up again or replaced. The bridge site came alive again. Construction got underway and they crept closer to getting back on schedule again. And Sam got a note from Jess.

_We are on our way. Yes. We._

A few days later, he was out on the bridge, discussing details about how to start joining up the ties from either side of the bridge to the center, when a runner from the depot appeared.

“The station master said that Colonel Winchester’s family is here.”

Sam’s heart tried to jump and twist itself into knots at the same time, and all it did was make him choke on his thanks to the kid. Then he was running towards the depot, dodging through the crowds, shouting for Dean and Samuel to join him.

Through the crowd of dark hair and skin, he saw a flash of gold, all wrapped in white silk. His mouth went dry with fear and excitement. It felt like years since he had seen her, and she was no less beautiful. She turned, and he saw the baby in her arms, swaddled against the hot sun and dust in the air.

“Jess!” he called, waving.

She saw him and waved back, her smile rivaling the sun. “Sam!” She looked down at their son and shifted him a little so he was looking up and out. “Look, there’s your father!” With another wave, she started down from the platform.

Sam started forward as well, but the crowd didn’t want to let him through. And then a lion roared.

He spun in terror to see the animal spring from the long grass. It raced straight towards Jess.

“JESS! Get back! Go back!” The crowd raced away from the depot, shouting and screaming in terror. Sam couldn’t move forward - bodies kept buffeting him back.

“Jess!” He rammed his shoulder against another man, and heard his brother’s voice, shouting over the din. “Dean! Get to Jess!”

Dean was on the fringes of the crowd and rushed towards the platform, the Colt glinting in his hand. He threw himself in front of Jess and drew bead on the lion.

But it was too late. Even as Dean thumbed back the hammer, the lion made a final leap forward, massive paw slamming into Dean. His face was torn by the claws, his neck snapped with a sick crack from the force. Sam screamed.

But the lion didn’t stop, and its momentum took it straight into Jess and the baby. Claws slashed and fangs tore into flesh. Jess’s screams of agony were cut off, and Sam’s throat tore raw with his bellow of denial. Blood bloomed across the white silk and soaked into the wood of the platform.

The lion lifted its bloodstained head and looked back at Sam. Its eyes were yellow.

_I need you sharp, Sammy._

Sam woke screaming and flailing. He slipped off of his cot and hit the floor before clarity returned. “Fucking nightmares,” he panted. An empty bottle of champagne nudged against his hand. “Freaking champagne.” He threw the bottle towards Dean’s bed and froze.

The entire side of the tent had been slashed open and fluttered in ribbons. Blood streaked the canvas. And Dean was gone.

“Dean! DEAN!” He managed to stand and grab his rifle and staggered out through the gaping hole, eyes instantly finding the lion spoor and the obvious marks of a struggle. The Colt lay abandoned near the tent, and Sam picked it up before running out of camp, following the blood stained trail. He heard Samuel shouting for him, but he ignored the other man and ran faster, the Colt up and ready.

The trail wove through the edges of camp, down towards the river and back into the grassland. Sam ran through the thorn trees, never feeling the stinging cuts, seeing only the trail. The sky started to turn blue and red from the grey of predawn, and he still ran on. The grass was soaked red, and the trail became narrower, with less signs of struggle. He looked up and saw a darker patch in front of him, where the grass has been trampled down.

A tawny shape moved in the center, and Sam lifted the Colt with a wordless, sobbing battle cry. His finger tightened on the trigger, the shape turned and straightened.

Samuel stood, face ashen. Sam dropped the gun, and stared at the other man, unable to form words through the harsh ache in his chest. Something dangled from Samuel’s hand, blood dripping down to the ground. It took less than a heartbeat for Sam to recognize it. The pendant that Dean had worn since their childhood, blood-soaked.

Denials piled up in Sam’s throat, but he couldn’t speak. He started forward, still not wanting to believe that Dean was gone. Samuel grabbed him by the shoulders and held him.

“No, Sam. No. There is nothing you can do. He is gone.”

“Dean,” he choked out. “No, nonononono, Dean-” Tears blurred his vision. “It said it’d leave us alone. I didn’t do anything. Dean! DEAN!”

“Dammit, Sammy, wake up!”

Sam jumped and blinked up to see Dean’s face looming over his, pale from drink and worry, but very much alive. “Dean?”

“Yeah, obviously. Must have been a hell of nightmare.”

Before he could stop himself, Sam lurched forward and wrapped his arms around Dean’s shoulders, clutching at his shirt to reassure himself that his brother was still alive. “They were just dreams,” he whispered, forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone, as if they were children again. “They weren’t real.”

For several long heartbeats, Dean didn’t move, allowing Sam the comfort. Then, he straightened and tugged at Sam’s arms. “Lemme go. You’re like one of those spider monkeys or something. Relax, man.”

He clung for a second longer, and then let go to sit up in his cot, scrubbing a hand through his hair and over his face. “God, they were like the other nightmares. Like I was there.”

“What did you see?” Dean asked as he picked up a canteen and handed it to Sam.

“First, it was Jess and the baby. They came here to visit, and the lion attacked them. We tried to stop it, but it killed you, and then them. I thought I woke up, and saw your bed empty and blood everywhere, and thought you’d been killed…” He shuddered and took a drink of water.

“No more champagne for you before bed.” The levity in his voice fell flat.

“Probably for the best.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Dean chuckled suddenly.

“Thank you for finding my pain amusing,” Sam groused.

“No, it’s not that,” he replied, laughter still playing at the edge of his words. “Spider monkey. Monkey in a tree. I have an idea.”

“For what?”

“Killing the demon, what else? You said that the demon was after you, and I think you’re onto something there. So, here’s what we do.” Dean took the canteen from Sam and drank before continuing. “We set another trap. You go out, get the demon to come after you. I’ll be up in a tree with the Colt, and I shoot them when it gets into range. While you make a break for a tree as well before it can get you.”

“No.” The word automatically fell out of his mouth.

Dean threw his hands into the air. “I don’t want to do it like that, either! Like hell do I want to bait a trap with my brother. But trying to get them to come at us while we’re in a building didn’t work, going after them in their cave clearly didn’t go well. So we get Yellow Eyes out in the open and kill the bastard there.”

The demon’s warnings rang through Sam’s mind on an endless loop. But if he started there, he’d have to tell his brother he’d been possessed... But if something like that had happened to him, he would want to know. As terrible as it was, that wasn’t something he could in good conscious keep from Dean. And if they killed the lions, Jess wouldn’t be in danger, the nightmares wouldn’t come true...

“Sammy!”

“What?”

“I’m the one that got shot in the head, I should have the glazed-over look on my face, not you. Even if you are hungover.” Dean frowned. “What’s going on in your brain, huh?”

He took a deep breath, wanting to word everything carefully, but the words just tumbled out, without his control. Dean stood frozen, flinching when he heard about the possession, cursing at the demon’s threats to Jess and going towards that dangerous stillness that Sam knew preluded a storm of emotion and stupidity.

“Son of a bitch, Sam, you thought you could do this on you own?”

“YES! Because I didn’t want anyone getting hurt because of me!”

“You aren’t going to stop the hurt by trying to do this yourself, especially if you get killed doing it! I have no plans of dying, and I’m not gonna let you die either. You and Dad, so ready to throw yourself at this damn thing - and I’m gonna be the one to bury you when it goes south from stubbornness.” Dean turned, checked to make sure the Colt was still at his hip, started out of camp. “That lion is going down, once and for all.”

 

Sam lunged and grabbed Dean’s shoulder. “No, dammit, stop! If I’m allowed to this alone, then you’re not either.”

“Do you have a plan, then, genius? Better than mine?”

“Actually, yes. We need to head over to Hawthorne’s tent.”

 

  
*

  
A light fog had moved in from the river as night fell, and by the time it had gone completely dark, the scraps of mist hung in the hollows and near the river banks like ghosts. But the moon was out, and it cast a pale light across the clearing as Sam straightened and looked over the sigil he’d drawn into the red dirt. With a muttered incantation, he cut his hand and let the blood dribble down to a small copper bowl filled with the ingredients for a demon summoning.

The wind sighed through the trees as he finished the incantation and threw a match into the bowl. Flames sprang up, high and bright and hot. Sulfur filled the air, almost but not quite masked by the stink of big cat. Sam stood and glared at the demon.

The lion stared back, amber eyes going yellow and pupilless. After a moment, it settled down on its haunches and cocked its head to one side.

“I’m done,” Sam said firmly. “Whatever plans you have for me, find someone else. I’m giving you the Colt. Do whatever you want with it. But I go, and my friends and family don’t get touched. Not now, not ever.”

A tree branch behind him creaked. The lion didn’t move. He pulled the long barreled revolver, wrapped in a scrap of cloth, out from his belt and tossed it in front of the lion. “I’d say go to hell, but that’s probably a compliment to you sons of bitches.”

The demon carefully cocked its head in the other direction, never taking its yellow eyes off of him. Then, slowly, deliberately, it snagged an edge of the rag with a claw and lifted. The gun fell out with a quiet metallic thump. Moonlight glinted on the barrel and put highlights on the dark wood grip. The demon gave a long sigh and shook its head.

_Sam. I know what The Colt looks like. How big of an idiot do you think I am?_

Sam staggered back, clutching at his head as the words and the pain exploded behind his eyes. The lion roared, and Sam stumbled backwards instinctively. His feet tangled together, and he fell. He only managed to get one hand under him to slow his fall, and he felt something give in his wrist. At the same time, he heard Dean shouting. Boots thumped in the dust near his head, and then Dean was past him, charging towards the lion.

“Come on, you bastard! I’m the one with the gun!”

“Dean, don’t!” Sam started, but Dean kept going.

The lion sprang up and charged. At the last second, Dean dodged away, and fired. The bullet sang out and smacked into the lion’s haunch as it also twisted away. Light flickered through its body, and it roared in pain. But it was far from dead.

“Shit!” Dean changed course again, scrambling back towards Sam, the lion only steps behind.

Sam was up and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun from his coat. He fired the salt and iron shell at the lion. It caught the beast right in the face; blood and the stench of sulfur flew out, and the lion roared in agony and stumbled.

“Get in a tree!” he bellowed at Dean even as he turned to run.

Dean went back to the tree he had originally been in, scrambling and hauling himself up into the branches. Sam ran for the tree next to it, and jumped up to catch at the lowest hanging branch, about nine feet from the ground. Even as his fingers wrapped around the branch, he felt his wrist give again, and pain flared hot and bright through his entire arm. A wordless shout ripped out of his throat as his grip disappeared and he fell back to the ground. He hit with a thump, and the air whooshed out of his lungs. Darkness crept in on the edges of his vision.

The lion roared and snarled and Dean bellowed another war cry. Sam forced air back into his lungs with a pained gasp, and blinked the world back into focus. The lion staggered towards him, blood streaming from the buckshot wounds in its face; the salt and iron kept the wounds from closing properly. Screaming curses, Dean was still in the tree, stuck. His leg was caught in the joint of two branches.

“SAM!”

He pulled in another lungful of air. The lion limped towards him, its left side useless after the shot from The Colt, its face wrecked. But it wasn’t going to stop until Sam was dead. Sam scrambled to his feet and darted towards Dean’s tree. Then he tripped. A dead branch caught his foot and he fell hard. The lion sprang forward with a triumphant roar, but it stumbled and went down onto its belly just short of Sam. He scrambled backwards, right wrist screaming with pain. But the lion crawled forward, claws reaching.

“SAM!”

He twisted and looked up. Dean was still stuck, and turned at such an angle that he would never be able to fire the Colt and kill the demon. They only had one shot left. He caught Dean’s eyes and held his gaze.

Sam felt the lion’s claws brush against the edge of his boot. Then he simply lifted his hand towards Dean.

And the Colt came spinning down as Dean flung it with as much accuracy as he could. Claws sank into his calf as Sam snatched the gun out of the air. He thumbed back the hammer, leveled the barrel, and fired.

The bullet hit the lion right between the eyes. Light flashed and flared up through its body, and the demon screamed.

Everything went silent.

Sam lost a few seconds, because the next thing he knew, Dean was next to him, shaking him and tapping his face.

“I’m okay. Stop,” he managed.

“Thank god,” Dean breathed and rocked back onto his heels to look at the lion. “We did it. It’s dead.”

“Yeah, yeah we did.”

“That’s for our Mom, you son of a bitch,” Dean snarled at the carcass.

“Go us,” Sam agreed, letting his head flop back onto the ground.

“Sammy?”

“‘m okay. Jus’, broke my wrist… got clawed up a little. Very relieved. I wanna go home. I want to see Jess. I want you to meet Jess.”

Dean grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up. “Come on, little brother. Let’s get you cleaned up before you start declaring your love for me and demanding hugs or something.”

“We did it, Dean.” He looked back at the lion, blood covered and stinking of sulfur, but very dead and demon-less. “We did it.”


	6. Epilogue

  
In a terrifying vision of deja vu, telegrams declared the death of lions, and the workers flooded back. Trains began their regular rotations, bringing the men and supplies needed to get the project back onto schedule. The bridge took shape, and the camp was alive with activity and excitement. To hear the workers tell it, they had all been present at the kills, had all played a part.

Sam didn’t care. Let them celebrate. They were all alive, the lions were dead, and the job was nearly back on schedule. And he had received a note from Jess.

_Are you excited?_

Dean laughed when he saw the note. “Am I gonna have another niece or nephew pretty quick here? Me and Samuel will babysit, so you and the wife can have some alone time, you know, cuz of how excited you are.”

Sam blushed red, and punched Dean in the shoulder. “Christ, stop it. I just can’t believe you’re still here. What about looking for Dad?”

“You said you’d help me. And we still have a while before we know if he got the news or not. We can wait to see your wife and get off of this continent.”

Sam wasn’t sure what to think about Dean’s sudden lax attitude about finding their father. Granted, with the yellow-eyed demon dead, there were few threats that John Winchester hadn’t faced and killed with ease on his own. So he wasn’t about to complain.

The brothers were leaning against one of the main support beams of the bridge, watching the organized chaos of the construction when a runner from the depot found them.

Sam didn’t even wait for Dean. He took off running, a wild grin on his face. At the depot, a wave of deja vu hit him again. The press of the crowd, the long grass, Jess in her white dress… He blinked away the images and realized that Jess was waving at him and calling. The world narrowed down to her, and he pushed his way through the crowd and onto the platform. He swept her up into his arms and kissed her.

She responded with equal heat, but suddenly started laughing. The kiss broke, and Sam stepped back, brow creased. “What?”

“My wild American is even wilder for being in Africa. Is it everything you dreamed of?”

“It doesn’t matter, I dreamed about you more.” He swooped in for a second kiss, but stopped short at the sound of an unfamiliar yelp. He looked down to see an active and slightly fussy baby in her arms. His stomach bottomed out when he realized that it was _their_ baby.

Jess smiled up at him. “Do you want to hold your son?”

Tears blurred his vision, and he nodded, unable to speak. But he hesitated, terror and excitement and love causing his hands to shake. “Wh-what’s his name?” he finally managed.

“Robert John. After my grandfather and your father.”

“Won’t he be proud?” Dean’s voice broke the moment, but Sam didn’t care.

He grabbed Dean’s arm and pulled him closer. “Jess, this is my brother, Dean. Dean, this is my wife.”

Jess’s eyes widened, and flicked between the brothers. “Oh. I think we have some catching up to do,” was all she said, and then added, “It’s lovely to meet you, Dean.”

“And you. Sam’s a lucky man, to have found such a lovely lady to spend her life with him.”

“I like to think so.” She smiled and then turned back to Sam and hefted baby John a little higher in her arms. “It’s okay. You can hold him. He won’t break.”

Sam still hesitated.

“You kill lions and build bridges, but you’re too scared to hold your kid,” Dean smirked.

“Hey, this is two different things entirely,” he replied, voice still shaking. “And the bridge still isn’t built, and I only killed the lions with your help.”

“Here I thought that you’re a grown man - well, you’re overgrown, that’s for sure - but it looks like I still have some work as the older brother.”

Sam looked between them, his wife, son and his brother. His father was still possibly missing, but the demon was dead, and while there would always be something to hunt, he could see a possible balance between the lives, how to still have his normalcy while helping Dean. And for the first time in a long time, he felt complete.

“Yeah. Look’s like we have work to do.”

_Fin._


End file.
